THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


UB 


PATRIOT  OR  TRAITOR 


PATRIOT  OR  TRAITOR 


BY 

CHARLES  G.  FALL 


BOSTON 
OLD  CORNER  BOOKSTORE 

27  BROMFIELD  STREET 
I 


Copyright,  1913 
BY  CHAELES  G.  FALL 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 
All  rights  reserved 


THE   UNIVERSITY   PRESS,    CAMBRIDGE,   XT.  S.  A. 


/4 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

SWEET  ANNIE  YULEE 1 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  MIST 3 

THE  BIRTH  OF  A  SON 7 

THE  HYMN  OF  THE  HUGUENOTS 8 

THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM 10 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 17 

TRAFALGAR 18 

DIANA 20 

MAY 21 

WINONA: 

I   Passion 22 

II  Love 32 

III  Hate 41 

THE  STORY  OF  A  LIFE 50 

THE  TRIP  OF  THE  OREGON 55 

VlN   DE   VOUVRAY 57 

GENEVIEVE 59 

THE  MINER'S  BURIAL 61 

MEGERSFONTEIN 62 

A  LAMENT  FOR  McKiNLEY 64 

COLONIAL  DAYS 65 

AN  IDYL  OF  MT.  DESERT 79 

FAME 83 

MAGDALENE'S  LETTER 84 

SONG  OF  THE  REVOLUTION 86 

THE  SPECTER  OF  LOCHES 88 

DEATH  WOULD  NOT  WAIT 90 

MOTHER^  AWAY 92 

ALC.EUS 94 

v 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

A  RETROSPECT 106 

RIPENED  FRUIT 108 

THE  INDIAN  STATUE  ON  LAKE  GEORGE 110 

TRUTH 112 

LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP 113 

THE  FOUNTAIN 114 

A  DISTANT  VIEW  OF  MT.  DESERT 116 

A  THRENODY 118 

THE  GOLDEN  DAY 121 

WOLLSTONECRAFT 124 

AT  ANCHOR 135 

AURI  SACRA  FAMES 136 

AN  ASCENSION  ODE 137 

THE  ANVIL  AND  THE  BROOK 139 

ALFREDA 141 

BIRTHDAY  ODE 142 

MT.  DESERT 144 

WEDDING  BELLS 146 

NIL  DESPERANDUM 147 

THE  GRAVE  OF  EMERSON 148 

HOME  AND  COUNTRY 149 

MY  MAIMED  HEIFER 151 

MIRAMAR 152 

OPPORTUNITY 153 

ALC^US  AND  SAPHIA 154 

A  SOUVENIR 156 

PATRIOT  OR  TRAITOR: 

I  Love 157 

II  *  Consecration 165 

III  Fidelity 171 

IV  Martyrdom 178 


VI 


PATRIOT  OR  TRAITOR 


SWEET  ANNIE  YULEE 


D 


D  ever  you  see 
Sweet  Annie  Yulee? 
See  the  rose  on  her  cheek  ?  See  the  smile  in  her  eye  ? 
An  eye  like  a  fawn's,  't  is  so  gentle,  so  shy ! 
Did  ever  you  hear 
The  fall  of  a  tear? 

The  step  of  the  moon  tripping  over  the  sea  ? 
Like  this  is  the  step  of  sweet  Annie  Yulee. 

Did  ever  you  see 

The  diligent  bee 

In  her  feathery  flight  over  meadow  and  field, 
When  sipping  the  dews  that  the  flowerets  yield, 

Her  wings  silver-tipt, 

Her  feet  honey-dipt. 

Her  motion  as  light  as  the  breeze  on  the  lea  ? 
This  magic  she  taught  to  sweet  Annie  Yulee. 

Did  ever  you  hear, 

How  soft  to  the  ear ! 

The  breeze  as  it  whispers  its  love  to  the  trees 
When  the  great  heart  of  Nature  with  happiness  heaves  ? 

Hear  the  brook  as  it  trills, 

Hear  the  voice  of  its  rills, 
Now  lonely  and  sad,  now  laughing  and  free  ? 
Like  this  is  the  voice  of  sweet  Annie  Yulee. 

1 


SWEET  ANNIE   YULEE 


Did  ever  your  eye 

In  wonder  descry 

Pale  Piety  shedding  her  benisons  round 
On  the  poor,  the  oppressed,  where'er  they  are  found ; 

A  star  to  the  dreary, 

A  staff  to  the  weary, 
But  a  figure  as  frail  as  a  palmetto  tree  ? 
This  maid  that  you  saw  was  sweet  Annie  Yulee. 

Did  ever  you  feel, 

When  the  shadow-forms  steal, 
And  you  sit,  sit  alone  by  a  smouldering  fire 
And  list,  in  your  musings,  to  Memory's  choir,  — 

Feel  a  hand  on  your  face, 

Of  the  tenderest  grace  ? 

Feel  a  kiss  on  your  forehead  that  quivers  with  glee  ? 
This,  this  is  the  kiss  of  sweet  Annie  Yulee. 


THE   SONG   OF  THE   MIST 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  MIST 

SMILING  and  bright, 
With  joy  bedight, 

The  sparkling  brook  bounds  on  its  way 
And  bears  upon  its  flying  spray 
The  words  the  mountain  echoes  say, 
Happy  and  free, 
Laughing  with  glee. 

"  Coming,  0  sea, 

I  'm  coming  to  thee  ! 
The  sighings  of  the  spruce  and  pines, 
The  gold  that  glitters  in  Earth's  mines, 
Her  gems,  her  wealth,  her  blood,  her  wines, 

Come  in  my  arms 

And  bring  their  charms." 

An  answering  strain 

Of  low  refrain, 

The  Mist  takes  up  her  wondrous  tale. 
Hear  how  her  words  our  ears  regale  ! 
This  song  she  sings  with  plaintive  wail, 

Now  fast,  now  slow, 

Now  joy,  now  woe. 
3 


THE   SONG   OF  THE   MIST 


"  I  'm  coming  home. 

I  romp  and  roam ; 
I  scale  the  cliff,  I  skirt  the  plain, 
I  skim  the  moor,  I  kiss  the  grain, 
I  bind  the  gorge  with  spectral  chain. 

I  creep,  I  fly, 

Now  low,  now  high. 

"  Sometimes  a  cloud, 

Sometimes  a  shroud ; 
I  come  in  many  a  myriad  shape, 
I  drape  the  brook,  the  torrent  drape, 
I  wind  the  glen,  the  glade,  with  crape ; 

I  veil  the  dale, 

I  ride  the  gale. 

"  I  sometimes  spring 

On  eagle's  wing. 

The  daybreak  lends  me  roseate  charms ; 
The  noondays  purge  my  breath  of  harms ; 
The  sunset  lies  within  my  arms 

And  laughs  and  weeps 

And  sighs  and  sleeps. 

"  I  'm  sometimes  gay 

As  a  woodland  fay ; 
Sometimes  a  ghost  that  haunts  a  cave ; 
Sometimes  a  sprite  that  rides  a  wave ; 
Sometimes  the  siren  sailors  brave ; 

I  'm  sometimes  dryad, 

Sometimes  hyad. 
4 


THE   SONG   OF  THE   MIST 


"  At  times  I  stray 

O'er  bog  and  bay ; 
I  paint  my  face  on  castle  walls ; 
I  lend  my  robes  to  palace  halls ; 
I  hear  the  whirlwind  when  it  calls 

And  own  its  sway, 

Its  nod  obey. 

"  When  puffed  with  pride, 

With  giant  stride 

I  stalk  across  this  grewsome  sphere 
And  with  my  plagues  its  face  besmear ; 
I  trundle  thousands  on  my  bier, 

And  rage  and  howl 

And  screech  and  growl. 

"  Ah,  then  my  breath 

Is  black  with  death  ! 
'T  is  then  the  thunder  leaves  its  nest, 
The  lightning  flames  from  out  my  breast, 
The  hurricane  begins  its  quest ! 

'T  is  then  my  eyes 

Are  lurid  skies ! 

"  That 's  battle's  day. 

Now  watch  the  fray ! 
My  sulphurous  squadrons  soar  on  high ; 
My  thundering  cohorts  scour  the  sky ; 
Armies  advance  and  armies  fly, 

Satanic  hosts 

Of  fire-eyed  ghosts ! 
5 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   MIST 


"  And  when  the  sun 

Its  course  has  run, 
And  battle's  howling  rage  subsides, 
My  pathways  match  the  crimson  tides 
On  which  some  wrecked  armada  rides ; 

Dismantled  ships 

Lie  in  my  lips. 

"  To  put  to  sleep 

This  storm-swept  deep, 
I  steal  with  silent,  serpent  tread 
And  soothe  its  billows,  smooth  its  bed ; 
I  lay  my  hand  upon  its  head, 

And  woo  its  face 

With  loving  grace. 

"  This  peace  and  calm 

Is  Nature's  balm. 
Of  all  delights  my  chiefest  joy 
Is  when  the  North  Wind,  wayward,  coy, 
Lies,  like  some  tired,  fretful  boy, 

Within  my  breast 

At  rest,  at  rest." 


THE   BIRTH   OF  A   SON 


THE  BIRTH  OF  A  SON 

THOU  fairy  boy ! 
Thy  plaintive  cries 
Dispel  thy  mother's  sighs, 
Kindle  the  fire 
On  Love's  eternal  pyre. 

Thou  tiny  prince ! 

Why  thinkest  thou 

These  vassals  round  thee  bow  ? 

Rule  not,  we  pray, 

With  sceptered  tyrant's  sway ! 

Thou  baby  sphinx ! 

What  gorgeous  dream 

Doth  through  thine  eyelids  gleam  ? 

With  bays  entwine 

Thy  mother's  brow  and  mine. 


THE  HYMN  OF  THE  HUGUENOTS 


THE  HYMN  OF  THE  HUGUENOTS 

In  March,  1560,  many  Huguenot  nobles  were  put  to  death  in  the  area 
between  the  chateau  of  Amboise  and  the  river  Loire,  by  order  of 
Catherine  de  Medici  for  attempting  to  gain  freedom  to  worship  God. 
As  Baron  de  Raunay,  the  first  victim,  ascended  the  scaffold,  the  chant 
of  a  hymn  was  begun  by  the  other  prisoners,  and  this  chant  was  con 
tinued,  but  in  diminishing  volume,  until  the  last  head  had  fallen. 

OLORD,  our  shepherd,  saviour,  sovereign  king, 
Who  Israel  led  through  wastes  of  land  and  sea, 
Their  cloud  by  day,  their  beacon  light  by  night, 
Shield  us  beneath  the  shadow  of  thy  wing ! 
We  are  thy  children,  longing  to  be  free. 

Help  us  as  now  our  spirits  take  their  flight ! 
Oh,  steel  our  hearts !     Oh,  give  us  grace ! 
And,  as  Death  strikes,  show  us,  0  God,  thy  face ! 

Oh,  tune  our  tongues  to  sing  our  trembling  song 
With  steadfast  voice  as  Death  each  victim  takes ! 
Let,  let  that  faith  that  stays  the  martyr's  tread 
As  we  the  scaffold  mount  keep  our  steps  strong ! 
And  when  the  gleaming  axe  the  headsman  shakes 

And  each  upon  the  block  lays  down  his  head, 
0  Thou,  who  had  upon  the  cross  no  fear, 
To  each,  thy  brother,  then  draw  near,  draw  near ! 

8 


THE   HYMN   OF  THE   HUGUENOTS 

May  visions  of  the  streets  of  Paradise, 
Those  golden  pavements  that  the  sainted  tread, 

The  saints  and  seraphs  chanting  thy  sweet  praise, 
In  shining  robes,  illume  our  dying  eyes ! 

Oh,  may  some  guiding  light  their  glories  shed, 

Whene'er  our  souls  their  feeble  pinions  raise  ! 
Dear  Lord,  from  out  the  clouds  reach  down  thy  hand 
As  our  eyes  close  upon  this  fading  land ! 


THE   SOLDIER'S   DREAM 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM 

THIS  is  the  ninth  of  April ! 
It  is  Appomattox  day, 
The  day  that  Lee  surrendered. 
How  the  smoke  has  cleared  away  ! 

In  a  chamber  —  it  is  midnight  — 
There  is  naught  that  frights  the  air 

But  the  panting  of  the  dying 
And  the  footfall  of  fond  care. 

Here  the  saviour  of  his  country 

Is  now  face  to  face  with  Death, 
And  that  victor  over  victors 

Has  his  hand  upon  his  breath. 

And  in  his  feverish  dreaming 
There  unrolls  before  his  sight 

A  panoramic  vision 
Of  a  life  from  dawn  to  night : 

A  child  of  sunny  summers 

Beside  his  mother's  knee, 
A  youth  of  earnest  purpose 

His  half  shut  eyelids  see ; 
10 


THE   SOLDIER'S   DREAM 


Anon,  a  dashing  trooper 

Upon  a  grand  parade, 
Anon,  a  charge  of  horsemen; 

Chepultepec  they  raid. 

And  now  a  sun-burnt  farmer, 

A  vine-clad,  prairie  home; 
A  wife  and  lusty  children  ! 

His  footsteps  never  roam 

Except  where  boon  companions, 
With  pipes  and  foaming  beer, 

Tell  tales  of  wild  adventure, 
Sing  songs  of  hearty  cheer. 

But  hark  !  the  bugle  calleth  ! 

Its  clarion  wakes  the  farms ; 
"Your  country  is  in  danger ; 

To  arms !  my  sons  !    To  arms !  " 

The  roads,  they  're  black  with  soldiers ; 

See  the  glistening  bayonets  gleam  ; 
There  are  thousands,  thousands  hurrying 

As  foams  a  mountain  stream. 

And  now  the  fever  rages. 

He  sees  a  battle-field, 
He  hears  the  cannon  echo, 

Battalions  charge  and  yield. 
11 


THE   SOLDIER'S   DREAM 


He  sees  the  blue  coats  rally ; 

He  sees  the  gray  coats  fall. 
O  God,  the  dead  and  dying, 

With  night  for  their  funeral  pall ! 

And  this  ?     The  queen  of  rivers  ! 

Against  her  shuddering  shores 
Volcanic  flames  are  belching 

And  volleying  thunder  roars ; 

Hot  shot  and  shell  are  crashing, 
And  lurid  smoke  and  flame 

Are  from  a  fortress  leaping, 
A  fortress  known  to  fame  ! 

Again  the  picture  changes, 

The  Capitol  is  seen 
Where  rolls  the  broad  Potomac 

Mid  banks  of  evergreen. 

This  is  not  love,  not  kindness, 
Now  sports  in  festal  garb. 

'T  is  brother,  armed  'gainst  brother, 
Who  spurs  his  fiery  barb  ! 

Brigades  and  guns  and  squadrons 

Are  marching  out  of  camp ; 
He  hears  their  maddening  music, 

He  hears  their  sturdy  tramp ; 

12 


THE   SOLDIER'S   DREAM 


They  're  hurrying  through  a  wildwood, 
A  nation's  life  their  prize  ; 

Their  shibboleth  is  "  Richmond/' 
Hark !    Hear  their  battle-cries ! 

For  days  and  days  together, 
Advancing,  halting,  slain, 
They  roll  as  rolls  old  ocean 
On,  on  and  back  again ; 

Till,  rising  higher,  higher, 

Leaping,  with  loud  roar, 
These  surging,  maddened  billows 

Break  o'er  the  crumbling  shore. 

But  this  ?     A  planter's  dwelling ; 

A  torn  and  storm-swept  vale  : 
Its  sides  are  piled  with  breastworks, 

They  're  rent  with  iron  hail. 

These  villages  of  canvas, 

These  hosts  in  blue  and  gray ; 

What  mean  these  halting  legions  ? 
And  why  this  calm  array  ? 

Why  mingle  yonder  chieftains  ? 

Those  leaders,  full  a  score  ? 
They  're  the  victors  and  the  vanquished  ! 

Thank  God  !   The  war  is  o'er ! 
13 


THE   SOLDIER'S   DREAM 


"  This  olive  branch  shall  shield  you  ; 

The  sun  of  peace  shall  shine ; 
This  flag,"  so  says  the  victor, 

"  It  shall  be  yours  and  mine !" 

No  lion  tone  and  bearing, 

No  eagle's  eye  of  pride ; 
As  modest  as  a  schoolboy 

He  even  seeks  to  hide 

That  pride,  that  joy  of  triumph 
By  kindly  voice  and  word ; 

He  feeds  the  conquered  army ; 
The  beggar  seems  the  lord. 

Soon  the  reveille  has  sounded  ; 

It  will  never  sound  again. 
And  now  in  martial  splendor 

Three  hundred  thousand  men, 

From  Vicksburg  and  from  Shiloh, 

Antietam  and  the  sea, 
From  Shenandoah's  Valley, 

From  Gettysburg's  green  lea, 

Those  cannoneers  of  Ruin, 

That  hurricane  of  horse, 
Who  carried  Death  and  Pestilence 

And  Famine  in  their  course, 
14 


THE   SOLDIER'S   DREAM 


Those  men,  those  boys,  when  Pickctt 
Swept  on  them,  wave  on  wave, 

That  stood  like  granite  ledges, 
The  bravest  of  the  brave, 

Now  with  drums  and  banners  flying 

And  triumph  in  each  eye, 
In  a  grand  review  are  marching ; 

He  sees  them  tramping  by 

As  saw,  that  night,  Napoleon, 

When  lightnings  rent  heaven's  arch, 

Before  his  dying  eyelids 

His  phantom  phalanx  march, 

Those  lions  of  Marengo, 

Those  tigers  of  the  Nile, 
Those  frozen,  starving  legions 

That  could  at  famine  smile ; 

That  Guard  that  ne'er  surrendered, 
Murat  and  Soult  and  Ney, 
Those  hounds  that  hunted  Blucher, 
But  threw  the  world  away. 

Ah,  what  a  gory  splendor 

Was  that  sun  of  Austerlitz ! 
'T  is  no  such  tawdry  pageant 

Before  our  hero  flits. 
15 


THE   SOLDIER'S   DREAM 


It  is  no  desert  island, 
No  cage  upon  the  sea, 

That  penned  the  patriot  soldier 
Who  set  our  nation  free. 

He  sank,  beloved,  among  true  hearts ; 

He  '11  live  in  hearts  unborn ; 
He  saved  a  land  from  suicide 

That  Faction's  fangs  had  torn. 


16 


ABRAHAM   LINCOLN 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

HIS  life  repeats  the  old  and  oft-told  story ; 
There  is  no  royal  road  that  leads  to  glory. 
In  Fame's  enchanted  fane,  its  phantom  walls, 
Its  gorgeous,  blazoned,  hero-haunted  halls 
That  crown  Parnassus'  heights,  there  wander 
The  Chian  minstrel  and  great  Alexander, 
Patrician  Caesar  and  the  swain  Leander. 


17 


TRAFALGAR 


TRAFALGAR 

HOW  Nelson  chased  phantoms  across  the  wide  sea ! 
How  England,  dear  England,  has  fought  to  be  free 
From  the  vultures,  the  harpies,  that  tempest  of  doom 
That  threatened  to  make  her  green  island  a  tomb ! 

Oh  his  hunger  for  fight!  Under  Collingwood's  lead 
The  fleet,  every  ship,  bore  down  at  full  speed. 
So  cavalry  charge  with  the  rage  of  the  blast, 
A  zephyr  at  first  but  a  whirlwind  at  last. 

Now  hear  the  shots  whistle !  Now  hear  the  guns  roar ! 
Hark,  hear  the  bay  echo  !  See,  see  the  smoke  soar ! 
From  keelson  to  masthead,  from  bowsprit  to  stern, 
Every  ship  '&  a  volcano,  see,  some  of  them  burn ! 

See  how  the  ships  tremble !  Hear  how  the  shrouds  moan ! 
And  the  men,  how  they  struggle !  How  they  yell,  how  they 

groan ! 

From  the  Cape  to  the  Pillars,  from  the  bay  to  the  light 
There  is  nothing  but  wreckage,  and  oh,  what  a  sight ! 

But  the  dead  and  the  dying,  they  cover  the  decks; 

And  the  sobs  and   the   sighing,  they   weigh   down   the 

wrecks ; 

And  the  cries  and  the  yells  and  the  wails  of  despair 
And  the  shouts  and  hurrahs,  why,  they  stifle  the  air. 

18 


TRAFALGAR 


But  the  saddest  of  sights  was  when  the  mooii  rose 
And  they  called  the  long  roll  at  the  hecatomb's  close ; 
With  a  silence  like  death,  except  when  a  gun 
Told  the  living  some  captive  its  colors  had  run. 

Ah,  but  sadder  than  this,  the  sea-king  is  dead ! 
Dead,  dead  in  the  arms  of  the  men  that  he  led ! 
And  that  duty  his  banner  bade  others  to  do 
Did  ever  a  sea-king  more  nobly  pursue  ? 

Now  tenderly,  tenderly  guard  thou,  0  Sea, 
These  martyrs  that  England  entrusts  unto  thee : 
In  thy  caverns,  thy  glens,  oh,  find  them  a  tomb 
And  chant  thou  their  fame  till  the  trumpet  of  doom. 


19 


DIANA 


DIANA 

QUEEN  of  the  sports !  Thou  mistress  of  the  bow ! 
Thou  ruler  of  all  who  hurl  the  huntsman's  dart ! 
Upon  thy  shrine  this  worshipper  will  throw 
A  loyal  love,  a  fond,  a  grateful  heart. 

'T  is  you,  fair  Queen,  that  nerved  my  arm, 

Strengthened  my  stride  that  covers  leagues  with  ease ; 
'T  is  you  gave  health ;  it 's  more  than  the  houri's  charm. 

Here,  here  I  fall !  Behold  me  on  my  knees  ! 
I  kiss,  I  kiss  your  hand,  your  brow,  your  robe, 

Better,  happier  than  if  I  owned  the  globe. 


20 


MAY 


MAY 

THE  earth  receives  Apollo's  kiss 
Upon  her  bosom  fondly  prest, 
Awakening  her  from  sleep  to  bliss, 
From  summer's  slumber,  winter's  rest. 

'T  is  now  the  shy,  the  amorous  dove 
With  fond  endearments  greets  his  mate ; 

'T  is  now  the  maiden's  eye  of  love 
Sees  vistas  of  a  holier  state. 


21 


WINONA 


WINONA 

THE   SORROWS   OF   LOVE 

I.   PASSION 

COME! 
Hear  the  sad  tale  of  Winona, 
Winona  the  child  of  the  forest ; 
Born  of  the  kiss  of  the  Sun-God 
And  loveliest  daughter  of  Laughter. 
Tale  of  true  love  and  its  sorrows ! 
She  dwelt  in  the  Indian  country, 
Land  of  the  peaceful  Algonquins ; 
She  dwelt  on  the  banks  of  our  river 
Laving  the  feet  of  Wachusett 
And  bearing  its  tears  to  the  ocean ; 
Dwelt  in  that  land  of  bright  promise 
Where  the  fawn-footed  sons  of  the  wildwood 
Chase  the  red  deer  upon  snowshoes 
And  hunt  the  black  bear  and  the  bison ; 
There  on  the  moors  of  the  Mystic 
That  Eric  the  Viking  discovered 
Calling  them  New  Norumbega. 

It  is  told  in  the  sagas  of  Iceland, 
Legends  of  travels  and  voyages, 
22 


WINONA 


That  he  anchored  his  ship  in  our  harbor 

Followed  the  course  of  our  river 

And  built  on  its  borders  a  tower, 

Marking  his  footprints  of  empire. 

The  Viking  then  turned  his  prow  homeward, 

Back  o'er  that  desert  of  waters, 

To  the  caverns  and  haunts  of  the  Sea-Kings ; 

Told  of  the  wonders  of  Vineland, 

This  realm  of  the  children  of  Ceres. 

Sagas  preserve  these  adventures  ;  — 

So  scholars,  at  least,  have  contended. 

Centuries  slept  their  long  slumber 
And  silence  was  lord  of  the  forest. 
Naught  except  Solitude's  sighings, 
The  neigh  of  the  deer  on  the  mountain, 
Cry  of  the  hawk  and  the  night-owl, 
The  footfall  of  rain  on  the  grassland ; 
Naught  but  the  scream  of  the  eagle, 
The  moan  of  the  murmuring  hemlocks  ; 
Naught  but  the  voice  of  the  waters, 
The  hush  of  the  pitiless  prairie. 
Repinings,  regrettings,  lamentings 
And  sobbings  of  untutored  Nature 
Broke  that  long  nightmare  of  silence. 
A  continent  buried  in  slumber !  — 
Save  when  the  hand  of  some  savage, 
While  prowling  this  dense  desolation 
Snatched  the  shy  trout  from  his  hiding 
Or  hurtled  his  death-dealing  missile. 
23 


WINONA 


Centuries  slept  their  long  slumber. 
The  river  flowed  on  as  before. 
Forests  bemoaned  their  seclusion. 
The  river  moaned  on  as  of  yore,  — 
Moaned  till  its  wailings  were  broken 
By  the  song  of  a  new  race  of  freemen, 
Men  had  deserted  their  hearthstones 
For  freedom  to  worship  their  Master, 
Here  in  this  land  of  fresh  promise, 
This  paradise  called  Noruinbega  ; 
Wresting  the  soil  from  the  savage, 
And  building  new  homes  and  new  altars. 

Time,  with  the  touch  of  true  friendship, 

Laid  its  hand  on  the  face  of  the  woodland, 

Smoothing  its  wrinkles  to  furrows 

And  building  the  church  and  the  schoolhouse  ; 

Feeding  the  manna  of  kindness 

To  the  savage  till  he  was  their  neighbor, 

Chasing  his  deer  on  the  mountain 

While  they  scattered  their  seeds  on  the  lowland. 

Now,  at  the  time  of  this  story, 
The  redman  has  buried  his  hatchet ; 
The  gun  of  the  paleface  is  silent 
And  stands  in  the  door  of  his  dwelling. 
Now  on  the  banks  of  the  river 
The  primitive  lords  of  the  forest, 
Tribe  of  the  peaceful  Algonquins, 
Are  building  them  cabins  and  wigwams. 
24 


WINONA 


Now  curls  the  smoke  of  their  chimneys, 
And  floating  on  summery  breezes 
Fades  in  the  spills  of  the  pine-trees, 
As  moonlight  will  fade  amid  vapor. 
See  the  swift  flash  of  their  paddles, 
As,  darting  from  leafy  seclusions, 
Skiffs,  with  the  speed  of  the  widgeon, 
Cut  the  sheen  of  the  crystalline  water  ! 


'T  is  the  month  of  October,  and 
All  the  woods  are  aglow.     Now  Nature, 
Shedding  her  maidenhood,  douneth 
Her  matronly  vesture  of  crimson, 
Puts  on  the  garment  of  woman. 
Look !     See  the  children  at  play, 
There  in  the  arm  of  the  river, 
Where  the  bend  of  the  bank  makes  an  elbow  ; 
Running  and  shouting  and  jumping. 
How  merry  the  peals  of  their  laughter  ! 
Muscles  as  tough  as  their  bowstrings ; 
And  flesh  like  the  blush  of  the  morning ; 
Footsteps  as  light  as  the  zephyr 
That  plays  with  their  raven-like  tresses. 
Boys  at  a  target  of  antlers 
Are  hurling  their  stone-pointed  lances. 
Maidens  are  plaiting  sweet  rushes 
And  with  shoutings  applauding  the  victors. 
Sports  of  our  childhood  are  battles 
That  win  us  the  triumphs  of  manhood  I 
25 


There,  where  the  shore  is  the  greenest 

The  squaws  are  engrossed  with  their  housework ; 

Venison  dressing  for  supper, 

Or  washing  green  vetch  for  the  kettle  ; 

Cutting  fresh  deer  into  slices, 

To  dry  in  the  sun  for  the  winter. 

Winter !     You  shrivel  the  savage 

"With  the  blistering  breath  of  the  Ice-Fiend  ! 

Famine  is  one  of  your  children 

And  Fever  and  pallid  Consumption  ! 


There,  in  that  group  by  the  hemlocks, 
A  hunter  is  pointing  his  arrows ; 
One,  on  some  smouldering  ashes, 
Some  sumac  is  boiling  for  dyeing ; 
One,  near,  is  oiling  a  bear-skin 
And  others  are  lounging  and  sleeping. 
There  where  the  ripples  are  dancing 
To  the  step  of  their  musical  laughter  ; 
There,  where  the  cataract  rages, 
By  the  brow  of  the  cliff  overhanging, 
Sits  an  Indian  maiden.     She  's  plaiting ; 
And  a  figure  is  lying  beside  her. 
Softly  her  hand  is  caressing 
A  fawn,  with  a  fleece  like  a  snowdrift. 
Playfully  dancing  and  prancing 
Now  this  way  he  tugs  and  now  that  way. 
Tired,  at  last  he  falls  prostrate 
Still  scorning  her  tender  caressings. 
26 


"  Why  wilt  thou,  Sweetheart,  your  mother/' 
She  says  in  her  Indian  language, 
"  Tease  with  your  fanciful  antics  ? 
You  know  that  she  loveth  you  dearly. 
Will  you  not  sleep  in  her  bosom  ? 
Not  stay  with  your  Indian  mother  ? 
Know  that  the  bow  of  Potalka, 
Potalka,  the  king  of  all  hunters, 
Stilled  the  fond  heart  of  your  mother 
And  crimsoned  the  sod  with  her  life-blood. 
Why  not,  then,  why  not,  I  pray  you, 
Stay  here  with  your  fostering  mother  ? 
Soft  is  her  cheek  as  the  greensward, 
And  her  .breath  't  is  as  sweet  as  the  heather  ! 
Hunter  shall  never,  no  never, 
With  arrowy  messenger  summon 
You  to  the  spit  for  his  banquet. 

"  Winona  's  the  child  of  a  sachem. 

He  has  left  her  —  a  branch  that  is  broken  — 

And  gone  to  those  evergreen  woodlands, 

Land  of  green  fields  and  fresh  pastures 

Where  the  fish  in  the  rivers  are  golden ; 

Land  where  the  deer  on  the  hillsides 

Eat  the  manna  the  sweet-scented  south  wind 

Brings  in  its  hands  from  Elysium,  — 

That  realm  of  eternal  delights. 

None  but  the  son  of  a  sachem 

Can  stay  the  full  tide  of  my  purpose." 

27 


WINONA 

Said  this,  her  glowing  eye  turning 

To  the  hunter  who  lay  there  beside  her,  — 

Shooting  an  arrow  of  lightning 

Could  wound  but  could  never  be  felt, 

Burn  like  the  blast  of  a  furnace 

"When  as  still  as  the  flame  of  the  maple  — 

Caressing  the  child  of  the  whirlwind 

Till  he  sank  into  sleep  on  her  bosom. 

Giving  her  love,  like  a  woman, 

Unworthily  oft,  she  was  happy. 

Spake  now  the  figure  beside  her ; 
He  had  lain  there  in  jealous  remonstrance. 
Spake  then  Potalka,  the  Panther  : 
"  I  'm  the  mightiest  brave  of  the  Mystics  ! 
I,  with  my  right  hand,  a  bullock 
Have  brought  to  his  knees  with  a  blow. 
I,  as  I  'd  buckle  a  sapling, 
Have  strangled  a  bear  in  my  clutches  ; 
Rowed,  on  the  Father  of  Waters, 
My  canoe  thirty  leagues  ere  the  sunset ; 
Lassooed  the  mustang  and  bison 
Where  the  Snake  Mountain  shoulders  the  prairie  ; 
I,  with  the  step  of  the  sunshine, 
Have  tracked  a  big  moose  to  Cohasset ; 
Chased  the  great  elk  upon  snowshoes 
To  the  brink  of  the  Great  Spirit's  whirlpool ; 
Scalped  with  the  hand  of  the  lightning 
A  chief  of  the  serpentine  Pawnees  ! 
Humph  !  will  you  toy  with  that  bauble  ? 
28 


On  that  fawn  will  you  lavish  your  kisses? 
You,  with  no  smile  for  Potalka, 
Potalka,  the  elk  of  all  redmen  ? 

"  Since  the  warm  breath  of  Helion, 

The  Sun-God  and  Father  of  Morning, 

Loosened  the  clutch  of  the  Ice-Fiend 

From  the  fields  and  the  face  of  our  rivers ; 

Since,  in  the  joy  of  their  freedom, 

The  brooks  have  sung  good-by  to  winter, 

Cowslips  have  yellowed  our  meadows 

And  told  us  our  maize  will  be  plenty, 

Here  has  the  spear  of  Potalka 

And  his  arrow  that  rivals  the  sunbeam 

Lain  at  the  feet  of  Winona. 

And  here,  too,  the  heart  of  Potalka 

Lies  in  the  greensward  beside  them. 

"  They  beg  that  the  queen-bee  of  maidens, 

Radiant  daughter  of  Laughter, 

The  swan  of  the  maids  of  the  Mystics,  — 

Tresses  that  rival  the  raven's, 

And  eyes  like  the  glow  of  the  Dog  Star,  — 

Kneeling  with  me  at  our  totem 

And  craving  the  Great  Spirit's  blessing, 

Home,  will  go  home  to  my  wigwam, 

Be  the  light  of  my  life  and  my  fireside." 

These  were  the  words  of  Potalka. 
He  spoke  them  with  terrible  passion ; 
Kneeling  in  pitiful  fervor, 

29 


WINONA 


So  pitiful,  painfully  pitiful ; 
Eyes  like  a  flame  in  their  burning 
Disclosing  the  furnace  that  fed  them. 
Spake  he  and  waited  his  answer. 

Naught  but  the  hoot  of  the  night-owl, 

And  the  moan  of  the  murmuring  river ! 

Naught  but  a  piteous  stillness 

On  the  shore  and  the  wilderness  round  it ! 

What  is  so  still  as  that  silence 

When  Love  holds  its  breath  for  its  answer  ? 

Nothing  he  heard  but  his  heart-beat, 

And  it  beat  like  the  heart  of  an  engine. 

Long  did  Winona  endeavor 
To  smother  the  voices  within  her, 
Seeking  to  sugar  her  answer 
And  cover  the  barb  of  her  arrow. 
Long  did  she  sit  there  reflecting, 
Selecting  the  words  she  should  utter. 
Meanwhile  a  cloud  swept  above  them  ; 
It  skirted  the  fringe  of  the  tree-tops, 
Shrouded  the  face  of  the  Night  Queen, 
As  sadness  was  shrouding  her  features. 

"  Sad,  ah,  so  sad  is  Winona  !  " 
In  stammering  accents  she  whispered. 
"  Grateful,  yes,  proud  is  Winona 
Potalka  has  done  her  such  honor, 
Wishing  to  bridle  in  harness 
A  gazelle  with  the  powerful  panther !  " 
30 


WINONA 


Gathering  breath  as  she  listened 

To  the  sound  of  this  voice  from  the  darkness : 

tl  Eagles,  on  cloud-skirting  pinions, 

Love  the  peaks  of  the  cloud-mantled  mountains, 

Tempests,  tornadoes,  and  cyclones, 

The  crash  of  the  volleying  thunder, 

Love  not  the  kiss  of  the  moonlight 

Or  the  song  of  the  thrush  in  the  gloaming." 

Trembling  she  gathered  up  courage 
To  speak  of  the  longings  within  her  : 
"  Loving  her  freedom,  Winona 
Would  taste  the  delights  of  her  freedom ; 
Something  would  see  of  the  people, 
The  paleface  who  dwells  by  the  harbor ; 
Something  would  learn  of  their  knowledge 
Of  the  arts  of  the  loom  and  the  shuttle." 

Speaking  thus  sweetly,  Winona 

Had  hoped  she  might  smother  the  fever 

Burning  so  fiercely  within  him. 

She  knew  he  was  proud  and  revengeful, 

Feared  to  awaken  the  demon 

That  lurked  in  the  lair  of  his  bosom, 

Ready  to  spring  as  a  panther 

Will  spring  on  a  fawn  if  it  thwarts  him. 

Meanwhile  the  storm  had  grown  fiercer, 
Impelled  by  the  rage  of  the  whirlwind ; 
Shaking  the  trees  in  its  anger 
As  if  some  Briarian  giant 
31 


Grasped  their  great  arms  ill  his  clutches 

And  twisted  and  cracked  them  and  broke  them. 

Furrows  it  plowed  in  the  river ; 

And  rode  the  wild  waves  as  a  stallion, 

Wildly  careering,  will  fling  off 

The  foam  from  his  flanks  in  his  fury; 

Scared  off  the  birds  to  their  eyries ; 

Drove  off  the  women  and  children, 

Deer  and  their  young  to  their  covers. 

It  frightened  the  half-frightened  maiden, 

Frightened  the  blood  from  her  visage 

Back  to  its  home  in  her  bosom ; 

Turned  back  her  footsteps  in  terror 

To  her  home  and  the  home  of  her  brother. 

Home  ?     Not  a  home !     'T  was  a  shelter  ! 

'T  was  a  cote  where  a  dove  could  find  refuge ! 

II.    LOVE 

Softly  the  glimmers  of  moonlight, 
In  shimmers  and  showers  of  splendor, 
Sifting  through  spills  of  the  pine-trees, 
Are  painting  the  floor  of  the  forest 
With  vanishing  figures,  mosaic,  — 
The  tessellar  pavement  of  nature. 
Softly  the  song  of  the  zephyr 
On  that  harp  that  is  hung  in  the  branches 
Falls  on  the  ear  of  the  Evening. 
Now  Nature  has  lapsed  into  silence ; 
32 


WINONA 


Save  when  some  bird  of  foreboding 
The  peace  of  the  stillness  is  breaking. 
Scarcely  the  play  of  the  ripples 
Now  ruffles  the  sheen  on  the  water. 
Smooth  as  a  mirror  of  crystal 
And  reflecting  the  stars  in  their  courses. 

Softly  the  river  is  sleeping, 

Profoundly  its  bosom  is  heaving, 

Swelling  with  deep  inspirations. 

It  is  resting  from  recent  emotions.' 

Midway  in  the  circlet  of  silver 

The  hillsides  have  framed  in  a  picture, 

Rising  in  stately  seclusion 

Like  that  boss  on  the  shield  of  Achilles ; 

Tufted  with  trees  on  its  summit 

Like  the  plume  of  some  Indian  warrior  ; 

Seeming  some  spectral  oasis 

In  the  desert  of  waters  around  it ; 

Dark  with  the  frown  of  its  shadows, 

There  rises  a  lowering  island. 

Cliffs  and  the  gloom  of  these  shadows 

Make  the  bulk  of  the  island  appear 

Huge  as  Leviathan,  sleeping 

On  the  untroubled  breast  of  the  ocean. 

Look !  With  the  speed  of  a  sheldrake 
A  boat  glides  out  of  the  shadows, 
Darting  long  arrows  behind  it,  — 
Its  wake  on  the  phosphorent  water,  — 
33 


WINONA 


Urged  by  the  stroke  of  a  paddle 

On  its  way  to  the  Indian  village. 

Soon  it  has  shot  o'er  the  river 

And  its  prow  is  against  a  big  bowlder, 

Set  like  a  bastion  of  granite 

To  guard  the  approach  to  an  inlet ; 

Nestling  in  the  lap  of  the  hillside. 

Hark  !     There 's  a  voice !     It 's  a  greeting  ! 

It  comes  from  the  shade  of  the  bowlder 

Out  of  the  edge  of  the  thicket. 

The  voice  ?  'T  is  the  voice  of  a  woman, 

Greeting  the  ear  of  the  boatman 

As  a  joyous  and  long- waited  welcome 

Falls  on  the  ear  that  returaeth 

To  its  home  again  after  a  journey. 

Lovers,  since  love  'gan  in  Eden 

Have  loved  the  lone  haunts  of  the  wood-dove, 

Shadows  of  rocks  by  the  sea's  side, 

And  the  hush  of  its  musical  voices ; 

Dales  that  the  columbine  courteth, 

And  vales  where  the  sun  falls  asleep ; 

Hillsides  with  cheeks  of  green  velvet 

And  no  ears  that  will  list  to  their  secrets. 

Naught  was  now  heard  but  low  whispers. 
Were  they  voices  ?  or  the  cooings  of  nestlings  ? 
Or  were  they  the  chirpings  of  crickets  ? 
Or  the  rustlings  of  leaves,  as  some  squirrel 
Jumped  from  one  bough  to  its  fellow  ? 
Or  the  lapping  of  waves  ?  or  the  ripples 
34 


WINONA 


Playing  at  tag  on  the  river 

And  drowning  the  voice  of  the  forest  ? 

Hearts  of  the  children  of  nature 

And  hearts  of  the  children  of  culture 

Speak  the  same  tongue  of  affection. 

It  is  so  in  all  lands  and  all  ages  ! 

Heard  where  the  Kennebec  wanders, 

'T  is  as  soft  as  the  play  of  its  laughter; 

Heard  on  the  gay  Guadalquiver 

Where  the  fan  tells  the  maiden's  soft  answer ; 

Heard  on  the  many- voiced  Danube ; 

In  the  land  of  the  lily  and  lotus ; 

Heard  on  the  swift  Sacramento ; 

In  the  groves  of  the  citron  and  olive ; 

Spoken  by  swains  at  Benares ; 

In  harems  by  dark-eyed  sultanas  ; 

Love  has  one  voice  and  one  language,  — 

'T  is  the  language  the  heart  ever  speaketh  ! 

Leaving  his  skiff  in  the  thicket 
To  dip  to  the  dance  of  the  moonbeams 
Lightly  and  lazily  tripping 
On  the  wake  of  the  waves'  undulations, 
He,  to  that  carpet  of  velvet 
That  Fortune  e'er  spreadeth  for  lovers, 
Leadeth  this  child  of  the  woodland ; 
Imprinting  with  chivalrous  fervor 
A  symbol  of  knightly  affection. 
35 


0  the  moments,  ecstatic  moments, 
Winged  with  the  pinions  of  eagles 
But  sweet  as  the  dews  of  Hymettus 
Sipped  by  the  bees  from  the  roses ! 
O  the  raptures,  heaven-born  raptures, 
Raptures  the  asphodel  crown  eth 
And  crowneth  with  blessings  immortal ! 
Worth  a  whole  year  of  life's  treadmill ! 

So  few  of  our  days'  dreary  doings 

Bear  the  cold  frost  of  remembrance, 

Outlive  forgetfulness'  famine. 

Brides  will  their  weddings  remember ; 

So  will  mothers  the  births  of  their  children ; 

So  will  the  maiden  forsaken 

Remember  that  bower  of  myrtle 

Bordered  with  rue  and  with  pansies 

And  her  shame  for  the  passion  she  kindled. 

These  are  our  landmarks,  our  beacons 

That  mark  the  full  heights  of  our  freshets, 

Depths  of  our  shallows  and  sadness 

When  the  river  of  life  has  low  soundings. 

Here,  too,  in  New  Norumbega 
This  night  of  that  Indian  summer, 
Here  in  the  shade  of  the  bowlder, 
As  deaf  as  the  sphinx  and  as  tongueless, 
Here,  where  no  eye  could  espy  them, 
Save  the  stars  in  their  sentinel  towers, 
Sat  the  Indian  maiden,  Winona, 


WINONA 


In  paradise,  too,  with  her  lover. 

List  to  the  rhyme  of  their  voices ! 

The  song  of  the  gold-throated  linnet 

Scarcely  can  equal  in  sweetness 

The  voice  of  these  children  of  nature. 

"  Long,  oh,  so  long  was  your  coming ! 

How  oft  has  the  oriole's  bugle 

Ushered  the  pageant  of  morning, 

How  oft  has  the  drum  of  the  partridge 

Thundered  tattoos  to  the  twilight ! 

How  often  the  bay  of  the  bloodhound 

\Yakened  the  echoes  at  midnight 

Since  your  feet  turned  away  from  my  wigwam, 

'  Farewell '  choked  the  breath  of  the  Evening ! " 

"My  love,  the  long  days  you  have  counted 
Ages  have  seemed  to  me,  ages ! 
Those  days  and  those  nights  never  ending 
Each  was  as  long  as  October. 
I  was  sent  to  a  neighboring  province, 
Sent  on  an  errand  official 
By  the  Governor's  orders  in  Council, 
Bearing  relief  from  the  famine, 
That  wolf  that  was  gnawing  their  vitals, 
Connecticut's  river  side  stalking 
With  his  dewlap  all  dripping  with  gore. 
Only  to-day,  't  was  at  noonday, 
Did  the  sun  mark  the  end  of  my  journey, 
Home  from  my  mission  returning 
As  an  eagle  returns  to  his  nest. 
37 


WINONA 

"  Dark  are  the  days  of  the  woodman  1 

He  shoulders  his  axe  and  his  rifle, 

Hews  him  a  path  through  the  forest 

And  a  hut  for  his  wife  and  his  children.   ; 

Dawn  hears  the  crack  of  his  rifle 

And  sunset  the  ring  of  his  hatchet ; 

All  the  day  long  must  it  echo 

While  his  rifle  lies  ever  beside  him. 

Nights  he  must  sleep  with  the  tree  tops 

Their  requiem  wailing  around  him, 

Heaven's  great  tent  for  his  shelter, 

And  the  bay  of  his  bloodhound  his  warning. 

Woe  to  the  woodman  if  ever 

His  vigilance  slackens  or  sleepeth  ! 

Death  from  the  knife  of  the  savage 

Is  the  goblin  that  sits  by  his  camp  fire ; 

Death  from  the  hug  of  the  grizzly 

The  spectre  that  stands  by  his  bedside. 

"  Gladly  I  'd  leave,  oh,  so  gladly, 
These  valleys  of  death  and  adventure, 
Sail  to  my  home,  to  dear  England, 
That  land  of  the  rose  and  the  hawthorn, 
Land  of  green  fields  and  green  pastures 
Where  Peace  is  the  dove  on  the  house  tops ; 
Land  that  is  ever  o'erflowing 
With  milk  and  with  wine  and  with  honey. 
There,  with  my  bride,  my  Winona, 
Whose  forehead  the  Sun-God  has  christened, 
Daughter  of  Sunshine  and  Laughter, 
38 


WINONA 


Whose  cheeks  have  been  wooed  by  the  South  Wind, 

Hived  in  an  arbor  of  roses, 

I  would  drink  the  new  wine  of  contentment." 

"  Harold,  there  's  something  that  tells  me," 

The  timorous  maid  then  made  answer ; 

"  Warns  me  this  dream  you  have  painted 

In  colors  you  took  from  the  rainbow, 

Ne'er  will  be  bodied  in  being. 

I  fear  that  the  pride  of  your  uncle, 

Ruling  the  Council  in  Boston, 

Will  frown  on  your  simple  adventure ; 

'  Never,'  he  '11  say,  l  shall  my  nephew, 

A  scion  of  William  the  Norman, 

Mingle  that  crystalline  water 

With  the  scum  of  an  Indian  chieftain.'  " 

"  Know  that  the  heart  of  my  uncle," 
He  says  with  a  lover's  persistence, 
"  Holds  in  its  holy  of  holies 
The  fatherless  son  of  his  brother. 
Fear  not  so  cruel  a  sequel ! 
It  is  only  a  womanly  fancy  !  " 

"  This  is  my  chiefest  of  reasons  " ; 
She  answers  in  gentle  remonstrance. 
"  This  is  the  ghoul  that  still  haunts  me, 
And  is  pulling  my  heartstrings  asunder. 
'T  is  that  he  holds  you  so  dearly  ! 
It  is  that  you  're  lord  of  the  manor  ! 
39 


WINONA 

No  !  He  will  wish  to  betroth  you 
To  some  rose  of  an  ancestral  culture, 
One  of  those  long  generations 
That  castle  the  cliffs  of  Old  England." 

"  Let  us  not  waken  chimeras 

That  vomit  forth  fiery  fancies, 

Hundred-eyed  doubts  of  the  future  ! " 

Responded  the  confident  lover. 

"  Look  where  the  star  of 'the  morning 

Is  skirting  the  purple  horizon, 

Bidding  me  hie  myself  homeward  ! 

Let  us  leave  to  the  future  these  problems, 

Trusting  the  God  of  the  Pilgrims 

Who  lighted  their  feet  o'er  the  ocean 

Us,  who  are  weak,  will  direct." 

So  saying,  he  leadeth  the  maiden 
Down  to  the  shore  of  the  inlet. 
Again  does  the  dip  of  a  paddle 
Startle  the  owl  from  its  eyrie  ! 
Again  there 's  a  voice  and  a  woman's ! 
Again  does  a  skiff  cut  the  pathway 
The  moonlight  has  blazed  on  the  water. 
So  does  an  owl  cut  this  pathway; 
And  both  disappear  at  the  bowlder. 


40 


WINONA 


III.  HATE 

Silence  was  wakened  from  slumber 
By  a  yell  as  of  demons  from  sheol. 
Then  came  another,  another, 
Till  the  air  was  a  maelstrom  of  warwhoops. 
Dozens  seemed  shrieking  in  chorus 
Until  Morning  stood  still  with  affright. 
Dawn  that  was  gilding  the  river 
Grew  pale  at  this  horrible  jargon. 
Shores  that  but  lately  were  breathless 
Now  quaked  at  these  howls  of  discordance. 
Echoes  were  jangled  in  wrangle 
And  Solitude  stricken  with  palsy. 

Moments  were  days  to  Winona. 
They  were  days  when  the  fever  of  living 
Burned  like  a  forge  double-heated 
And  turned  all  her  courage  to  cinders. 
Then  as  this  babel  of  madness 
Took  breath  for  a  louder  dissension, 
Heard  she  the  splash  of  their  paddles 
Draw  nearer  the  lee  of  the  bowlder, 
Nearer  that  blaze  of  the  moonlight 
Where  she  last  saw  the  form  of  her  lover. 

Voices  she  now  could  distinguish. 
Potalka's  she  knew ;  and  her  brother's 
Rang  like  a  knell  in  the  darkness. 
And  another  she  heard.     It  was  sweeter, 
41 


WINONA 

Dearer  than  life  to  Winona  ! 

A  voice  not  of  fear  but  of  weakness ; 

Tears  in  its  tones  of  remonstrance, 

But  not  for  himself,  for  another ; 

Tears  overflowing  with  pity, 

But  not  for  himself,  for  another ; 

Tears  with  no  power  of  turning 

The  savages'  hearts  from  their  purpose. 

Fainter  this  grew.     It  grew  stifled. 

It  was  weighted  with  sighs  of  despair. 

Fainter  it  grew.     He  was  choking. 

He  was  choking  for  her.     He  was  dying, 

Close  to  her,  save  for  the  water 

That  rolled  like  an  ocean  between  them. 

Naught  could  she  do  for  the  dying, 

And  naught  could  the  dying  one  hear. 

But,  as  he  sank  in  the  river, 

A  voice  —  oh,  its  agonized  accents ! 

Accents  so  freighted  with  feeling !  — 

Poured  forth  his  soul  with  her  name. 

Silence  then  fell  like  a  mantle ; 
So  it  comes  in  a  weeping  cathedral 
Whenever  the  voice  of  the  organ 
Has  ceased  and  we  wait  for  the  preacher's, 
Wait  till  the  silence  grows  stifling. 
It  smote  e'en  the  heart  of  the  savage. 
Death  was  among  them  !     Grim  Monster ! 
He  might  drag  them  along  at  his  cart-wheel ! 
42 


WINONA 


Gentleness  never  could  linger 

For  long  in  the  breast  of  the  red  man. 

Butchery !     Murder  and  slaughter ! 

The  tomahawk  !     Death  on  the  war-path ! 

Butchery,  scalpings,  and  slaughter  I 

Someone  to  kill,  to  devour  ; 

Someone  to  roast  at  the  camp  fire ; 

Another  red  notch  in  the  gun-stock ! 

Triumph,  its  carnage,  its  war  dance, 

Its  yells  and  its  demons  and  madness 

Stand  to  the  fore  in  their  yearnings, 

Their  schemings,  their  dreamings,  and  doings. 

Shouts  from  the  throats  of  these  devils 

Now  echoed  across  the  still  water, 

Shoutings  of  wild  jubilation 

From  throats  that  were  frenzied  with  triumph. 

Triumph !     Of  Jealousy's  breeding ! 

Conceived  in  the  Womb  of  Revenge  ! 

Bred  in  the  sulphur  of  Hell ! 

Hell  ?     It  is  here.     It  is  anywhere. 

It  flames  in  the  heart  of  the  savage,' 

Sleeps  in  the  soul  of  the  Christian ; 

Its  fires  are  all  of  our  kindling. 

Soon  they  were  gone  to  the  war  dance. 
There,  painted  as  demons  with  horns, 
Daubed  with  vermilion  and  ochre, 
Now  shaking  their  spears  and  their  hatchets, 
Knives  that  were  dripping  with  gore, 
43 


WINONA 

Aiid  waving  the  scalp  of  their  victim  — 
Symbol  of  triumph  and  glory, 
Like  an  emblem  of  death  at  a  wedding !  — 
Dancing  and  screeching  and  gorging, 
They  herald  the  dawn  with  their  orgies. 

Winona  ?    Winona,  forsaken, 
Is  cowering  down  by  the  river ; 
Anguish  has  stifled  her  breathing 
And  agony  smothered  her  heartbeats. 
She,  too,  has  heard  their  rejoicing, 
Their  dance  on  the  grave  of  her  lover, 
Seen,  too,  his  skiff  floating  by  her, 
His  corse  with  his  arm  on  the  gunnel ; 
Hiding  and  sighing  and  sobbing, 
No  one  has  thought  of  her  sorrow. 

Niobe's  grief  could  dissolve 

In  her  tears.     Winona's  was  tearless ; 

Such  was  her  anguish  the  Furies, 

Aye,  a  gibbering  ghost  would  shed  tears ; 

Minos,  that  demon  of  hate,  hold 

His  breath ;  even  Hades  would  weep. 

Bearing  her  burden  she  turned 
To  her  wigwam,  to  face  the  reproaches, 
Scorn  and  contempt  of  her  people. 
Their  arrows  will  rain  down  in  showers ; 
Down  on  her  sorrow,  so  speechless, 
So  patient,  they  will  thunder  their  hatred 
44 


WINONA 


Days  without  number,  till  dying 

Were  pleasure.     The  Indian's  bible 

Dooms  to  a  torment  eternal 

The  suicide's  soul.     It  must  wander 

Ages  unknown,  over  ice-fields 

Siberian,  shelterless,  homeless, 

Hungry,  unclothed  and  unfriended. 

She  patiently  stooped  to  this  burden, 

Speechlessly  smothered  her  sorrow, 

Until  scorn  had  forgotten  its  lashes 

Wounds  would  inflict,  woundings  that  quiver 

Till  their  quiverings  engender  madness. 

Told  in  this  Indian  legend, 
Repeated  since  Time  can  remember, 
Loved  for  its  poetic  justice 
Is  the  tale  of  the  river's  devotion : 
When  the  mad  feast  had  its  ending 
The  carcass  was  thrown  to  the  fishes. 
Scarce  had  it  sunk  to  the  bottom 
Ere  a  monument  rose  from  the  water, 
Raised  by  the  God  of  the  River, 
The  water-nymphs  lending  assistance. 

Years  have  been  adding  their  tribute. 
No  maiden  of  sorrows  would  pass  it 
But  she  added  some  sign  of  her  sorrow, 
Some  token  of  sympathy's  kindness. 
GroAving  by  grievings  and  anguish, 
The  cairn  had  soon  covered  the  island, 
45 


WINONA 


Telling  how  many  a  maiden, 

Unhappy,  brought  hither  her  burden. 

Christians  bear  theirs  to  the  Cross, 

And  find  sympathy,  peace  and  contentment. 

Many  another  sad  sister 

Of  Clytie  has  brought  to  some  altar 

Longings  and  bruises  and  heartaches ; 

Has  brought  to  that  altar  where  sleepeth, 

After  her  tempest  of  loving, 

That  heart-broken  maid  Heloise, 

Clasped  in  the  arms  of  her  lover. 

Ah,  Love  has  its  crowns  and  its  crosses ! 

Hearts  of  the  children  of  nature 

And  hearts  of  the  children  of  culture 

Sing  the  same  songs  in  their  gladness, 

And  shed  the  same  tears  in  their  sadness, 

Sip  the  same  nectar  of  pleasure 

And  drink  the  same  nectar  for  sorrow. 

Woman  is  woman,  and  has  been 

Since  love  was  the  soul  of  her  being ; 

Woman  is  woman,  and  will  be 

While  love  is  the  cause  of  her  grieving. 

Life  has  delights  which  are  fleeting 

As  the  footprints  we  stamp  on  the  water, 

Life,  too,  has  sorrows  as  lasting 

As  the  footprints  we  find  in  the  placers. 

True-hearted  maiden  !  You  tasted 

The  nectar  of  love.    It  was  wormwood ! 

46 


WINONA 


Naught  of  the  rapture  of  loving 
Remained  except  kindness  to  others, 
All  of  the  days  that  came  after 
Your  doings  were  charity's  doings ; 
Friend  of  the  sick  and  the  needy ; 
And  these  they  are  always  among  us 
If  but  our  eyesight  be  kindled 
By  sympathy's  quickening  sunlight. 

Here,  with  these  peaceful  Algonquins, 
There  were  sadness  and  sickness  and  hunger, 
Mothers  and  maidens  whose  footsteps 
Were  treading  the  paths  of  despair, 
Torn  by  its  rocks  and  its  brambles, 
And  starving  for  love  and  for  kindness. 

These  were  her  daily  companions ; 

And  these,  were  it  noonday  or  midnight, 

Lived  in  the  light  of  her  presence, 

In  the  warmth  of  her  hand  on  their  faces, 

Smoothing  their  wrinkles  of  worry 

And  soothing  their  bruises  and  sorrows, 

Showing  the  pathway  that  leadeth 

To  that  land  where  the  Great  Spirit  dwelleth. 

Often  some  hunter,  when  prowling 
The  broad  colonnades,  where  the  pine  trees, 
Stationed  like  towering  sentries, 
Shook  their  huge  spears  as  a  warning, 
Heard  a  soft  step  in  the  gloaming 
On  its  way  to  some  haunt  of  affliction. 
47 


WINONA 


Even  the  blast  of  the  tempest 
Seemed  to  temper  its  rage  to  her  coming, 
E'en  did  the  beasts  of  the  forest 
Stay  the  fierce  pangs  of  their  hunger. 
Maidens  with  heartaches  she  loved  best, 
And  she  knew  the  best  balm  for  their  sorrows, 
Knew,  when  some  lover's  long  absence 
Brought  anguish,  that  lover  was  constant. 

Often  her  kind  consolations 
Have  brought,  as  the  beak  of  the  raven, 
Bread  to  those  hungry  for  kindness 
And  drink  to  those  thirsting  for  love  ; 
Come,  as  the  stork  has  come  often, 
To  a  house  where  a  babe  is  expected. 

All  of  her  thoughts  were  for  others, 

But  one  hunger  still  gnawed  like  a  famine, 

Tore  as  the  wolf  tears  his  victim ; 

No  solace  could  soften  these  cravings. 

"  Shall,  shall  I  never  hereafter, 

Shall  I  not  in  those  far  hunting  fields, 

Realms  of  the  purified  spirits, 

Behold  the  dear  face  of  my  lover  ? 

Hear  that  sweet  voice,  those  sweet  accents  ? 

Hear  him  say  I  am  never  forgotten  ? 

Say,  too,  his  heart  was  mine  only, 

And  his  vows  had  no  shadow  of  seeming  ? " 

Such  was  her  hope  ever  present ! 

It  stood  by  her  cot  when  she  slumbered, 

48 


WINONA 


Walked  by  her  side  when  she  wandered ; 

It  lighted  the  sufferer's  candle, 

Shone  on  the  face  of  the  dying. 

It  stood  by  the  bier  when  Jehovah 

Steered  through  the  shallows  her  pinnace 

To  the  calm  of  Eternity's  sea. 

Death  is  a  friend,  is  a  brother, 

When  the  mind  has  been  shattered  or  shipwrecked. 

Borne  by  those  maids  who  had  loved  her, 
By  the  friends  she  had  ever  befriended, 
Borne  on  a  skiff  to  the  island, 
The  altar  where  oft  she  had  worshipped ; 
Maidens  with  heartaches,  none  others, 
All  clad  in  pure  white,  were  her  bearers. 

Here  by  the  side  of  her  lover, 
On  the  isle  that  the  River-God  fashioned, 
Water-nymphs  helped  him  in  building, 
Here  with  the  stars  for  her  watchers, 
Here  'neath  the  cairn  of  the  martyr, 
She  waits  till  the  martyrs  are  crowned. 


49 


THE   STORY   OF   A   LIFE 


THE  STORY  OF  A  LIFE 

WHILE  lying  half  awake  one  summer's  night, 
My  chamber  swimming  in  a  sea  of  light, 

And  silence  floating  on  the  ambient  air ; 
No  sound  except  the  clock  beside  the  stair, 

That  ticked  the  tardy  time  with  tiring  dins ; 
My  Fancy  silken  threads  of  revery  spins. 

I  see  two  lovers,  on  a  summer  eve, 
The  doorway  of  an  ivied  cottage  leave 

And  wander  through  a  shaded,  woodland  way. 
I  hear  the  soft,  low  music  of  some  lay 

That,  lingering,  seems  to  tremble  with  the  breeze 
As  will  the  zephyr  play  through  waving  trees. 

The  youth  has  nature's  grace,  the  wild  deer's  tread ; 
The  branches  seem  to  lift  above  his  head 

As  on  he  strides.     His  step  and  bearing  say, 
"  I  know  no  thoughts  that  fear  the  light  of  day ; 

"  The  soul  of  freedom  guides  the  condor's  flight, 
The  soul  of  freedom  guides  the  sons  of  light." 
50 


THE   STORY   OF   A   LIFE 


The  maid  is  gentle  as  was  Leda's  swan. 

She  follows  where  he  leads.     Her  face  is  wan 

As  if  she  'd  watched  beside  some  sick  bedside 
With  vigils  frailty's  child  should  ne'er  have  tried. 

But,  now,  to  walk  with  him  she  loves,  awhile, 
To  watch  his  step,  his  mien,  his  eyes,  his  smile, 

To  drink  the  nectar'd  music  of  his  voice 
And  know  that  she  is  jewel  of  his  choice, 

Queen  of  his  thoughts  by  day  and  dreams  by  night 
'T  is  peace,  't  is  joy,  the  rapture  of  delight  I 

It  lifts  her  heart  above  the  gloom,  the  shade, 
That  their  dark  mantle  on  the  woods  has  laid ! 

Sweet  Sympathy  !     Thou  art  the  soul  of  Love ! 
You  make  our  heaven  below,  our  heaven  above. 

The  panorama  changes.     Speeding  on, 
It  spreads  before  my  eyes  love's  labor  won. 

The  lamps  are  glowing  in  some  village  church, 
The  guests  assembling.     From  their  choir-perch 

The  village  doves,  in  robes  of  downy  white 
And  modesty,  now  dawn  upon  my  sight. 

I  hear  them  chant  the  legend  of  that  knight 
Who,  in  the  tourney,  won  his  long-loved  wight. 

And  now  the  wedding  march  the  organ  speeds ; 
Now  Cupid  Psyche  to  the  altar  leads ; 

51 


THE   STORY  OF  A  LIFE 


Now,  all  unseen,  at  least,  by  earthly  eyes, 
Their  vows  ascend  on  pinions  to  the  skies. 

Again  the  vision  changes.     Now  is  seen 
A  rustic  cottage  and  an  emerald  green ; 

A  stately  matron  stands  within  the  door ; 
'T  is  she  in  youth's  fresh  bloom  I  saw  of  yore  ! 

Around  her  feet  are  children  at  their  play, 
Their  ringlets  dipt  in  sunset's  golden  ray, 

Their  faces  glowing  with  health's  roseate  fire; 
No  labor  frights  them  and  no  sport  can  tire. 

What 's  this  I  see  that  'a  lying  in  the  shade  ? 
What  is  this  figure  by  the  brookside  laid  ? 

I  see  tall  trees  beside  a  silver  brook, 
Where  some  one  lies  as  if  he  read  a  book ; 

A  gray-haired  man ;  he  seems  to  write  in  song 
The  tale  it  tells  him  as  it  sings  along. 

'T  is  he  !  'T  is  he  !     But  Thought  has  carved  those  lines 
That  mark  the  toiler  in  her  mystic  mines ; 

Has  bent  that  head  that  once  was  so  erect/ 
But  stamped  it  with  the  seal  of  her  elect. 

Yes,  fancy's,  boyhood's  dream  has  been  fulfilled 
And  manhood  wears  the  laurel  youth  had  willed. 

The  cup  is  drunk,  is  drained,  the  wine,  the  lees ; 
The  pearl  he  sought,  —  is  that  the  pearl  he  sees  ? 

52 


THE   STORY   OF  A   LIFE 


Or  are  those  youthful  hopes  mirage's  sheen 
That  leads  the  traveler  to  springs  ne'er  seen  ? 

The  curtain  lifts.     And  now  my  half-shut  sight 
Beholds  the  drama's  ending  —  death  and  night ; 

Beholds  a  churchyard,  sees  a  grassy  mound 
Within  a  surging  city's  burial  ground ; 

It  sees  a  tablet,  sees  a  moldering  name 
Our  country  once  had  garlanded  with  fame, 

Had  hailed  with  loud  acclaim  and  wondering  eye, 
While  generations  bowed  as  he  passed  by. 

Fame's  temple  now  my  waning  dream  displays ; 
'T  is  blazoned  with  the  gleams  of  golden  rays ; 

They  gleam  along  its  front,  they  gild  its  dome. 
This  temple  is  the  great  immortal's  home ; 

The  home  of  soldiers,  sages,  poets,  men 
Who  ruled  their  land  with  tongue  or  pen ! 

Its  walls  are  alabaster.     Plaques  of  gold, 
Of  ruby,  sapphire,  pearl,  my  eyes  behold ; 

Its  spires  and  pinnacles  they  touch  the  sky 
And  fade  to  azure  on  my  straining  eye. 

I  grope  among  its  tablets  for  one  name. 
Yes,  here  it  is  !     He  has  his  lasting  fame ! 

And  yet  I  scarce  can  read  it  'neath  the  dust ; 
It  lies  in  solitude.     'T  is  black  with  rust. 
53 


THE   STORY   OF   A   LIFE 


But  yet  't  is  his  who  made  that  sacrifice 

For  fame,  that  fades  like  rainbows  from  the  skies. 

Ah,  did  he  know  how  soon  the  tear  will  dry, 
How  soon  the  dove  will  spread  his  wings  and  fly, 

Then  would  the  trumpet's  blare,  this  noisy  praise, 
Have  had  such  power,  to  charm  for  such  long  days  ? 

The  grandeurs  of  old  Rome  !     How  strange  they  seem ! 
That  pageantry  of  Egypt !     Was 't  a  dream  ? 

Their  pride,  their  glories, — all  have  taken  flight, 
And  only  Cheops  has  outlived  the  night. 


54 

'* 


THE   TRIP   OF  THE   OREGON 


THE  TRIP  OF  THE  OREGON 

HAVE  you  heard  of  the  Oregon's  marvelous  flight,  — 
How  she  girdled  a  world  with  a  circle  of  light, 
While  a  continent  gazed  with  surprise  and  delight, 
For  Santiago  bound  ? 

Have  you  heard  of  the  Captain  who  fathered  the  feat, 
Of  the  sailors  who  steered  her  in  sunshine  and  sleet, 
Of  the  stokers  who  stoked  her  in  a  smothering  heat, 
For  Santiago  bound  ? 

'T  was  a  glorious  ship  !     'T  was  a  glorious  crew  ! 
How  the  monster  the  surf  from  her  hungry  jaws  threw  ! 
How  she  laughed  in  its  face  when  the  hurricane  blew ; 
For  Santiago  bound ! 

When  she  doubled  the  cape  she  expected  a  shell, 
And  when  abreast  Rio  —  well,  she  '11  never  tell, 
She  was  shoveling  coal  to  send  Spaniards  to  Hell, 
For  Santiago  bound. 

"  Here  they  come  !     Here  they  come !     Here  they  come," 

was  the  cry. 
"  Give  the  engines  full  head !     To  the  guns !     Let  her 

fly!" 

See  her  furnaces  flame,  hear  her  guns  roar  reply  ; 
For  Santiago  bound ! 
55 


THE  TRIP   OF  THE   OREGON 

Who  can  stand,  who  can  live,  in  this  terrible  gale 
Of  hot  shot  and  hot  shell  and  this  whirlwind  of  hail  ? 
They  are  riddled  like  sieves  ;  they  are  sunk  on  the  shale, 
From  Santiago  bound. 

War  is  death  !     Yes,  't  is  hell !     See  them  jump  for  their 

lives ! 

They  have  fathers  and  mothers,  have  sisters  and  wives  ; 
But  are  smothered  like  rats,  aye,  like  bees  in  their  hives ; 
From  Santiago  bound. 


56 


VIN  DE  VOUVRAY 


VIN  DE  VOUVRAY 

MANY  thanks  to  thee,  Vintner  of  Vouvray, 
For  the  milk  of  the  vine  that  we  drank 
From  the  cellars  that  Charlemagne's  vassals 
Had  hewn  in  the  bank ! 

In  the  days,  long  ago,  they  were  quarries ; 

And  these  were  the  sentinel  towers, 

These  goblins  whose  battle-scarred  visage 

O'er  the  river  still  lowers. 

How  sweetly  the  bell  of  the  convent  — 

'T  is  a  decade  of  centuries  old  — 
Calls  the  nuns  to  their  twilight  devotions, 
The  lambs  to  the  fold  ! 

"  Will  we  drink  ?  "     Yes,  we  will,  and  drink  often, 

Drink  flagons  of  wine  to  your  toast : 
It  was  Rome  and  her  torch  that  illumined 
Gaul's  ignorant  host. 

And  we'll  drink  to  the  shade  of  the  bishop 

Who  brought  them  the  gospel  of  love, 
And  opened  a  window  in  heaven 
And  called  down  the  dove. 

57 


VIN   DE  VOUVRAY 


Here  is  life  to  thee,  Vintage  of  Vouvray  ! 

Here  is  peace  to  the  fields  where  you  grew ! 
You  have  wakened  the  ghosts  of  dead  ages 
And  clothed  them  anew. 


58 


GENEVIEVE 


GENEVIEVE 

Til  WAS  here  I  saw  my  Genevieve, 

My  pensive,  blue-eyed  Genevieve ! 
'T  was  just  at  sunset,  as  the  day 
Was  fading  into  eve. 

She  came  this  path  beside  the  sea, 

A  smile  was  dancing  on  her  face, 
She  sang  —  how  sweet  the  notes  —  some  song ; 

No  sylph  could  match  her  grace. 

She  sang,  but  scarcely  knew  she  sang, 
That  hymn  at  Christmas-tide  we  hear ; 

But  scarce  looked  up  and  only  said 
She  thought  no  one  was  near. 

A  spray  of  woodbine  in  her  hand, 
Some  daisies,  too,  and  golden-rod  ; 

There  never  was  a  fairer  queen 
This  beauteous  earth  e'er  trod. 

The  smile  that  danced  about  her  face, 

'T  was  like  the  evanescent  light 
The  setting  sun  paints  on  a  cloud 

Just  as  it  fades  from  sight. 
59 


GENEVIEVE 


Her  step  !  't  was  like  the  spirit  ray 
Of  Luna's  footstep  on  the  sea  ! 

It  told  me  that  her  heart  o'erflowed 
With  peace  and  health  and  glee. 

Oh,  could  I  hope  a  thought  of  me, 

One  thought,  but  lingered  in  her  breast, 

That  ghost  that  haunts  my  midnight  hours 
Would  go  and  give  me  rest. 

The  peace,  the  joy,  that  thrilled  my  soul, 

O  Genevieve,  my  Genevieve, 
That  night  the  fairy  in  my  dreams 

Did  orange  blossoms  weave. 

Till  then  there  was  no  magic  spell 

Could  drive  the  goblin  from  my  breast 

Except  the  happy  memories 
Of  hours  your  smiles  had  blest. 

Till  then  my  feet  were  like  the  snails ; 

Till  then  my  lamp  but  dimly  burned ; 
My  cheek  was  wan,  my  eye,  alas, 

From  revery  seldom  turned. 

Away  from  thee  life  was  not  life, 
And  none,  not  blind,  could  fail  to  see 

The  love  I  tried  to  conquer  so 
Was  only  conquering  me. 


60 


THE   MINER'S   BURIAL 


THE  MINER'S  BURIAL 

WE  buried  Big  Bill  in  the  canyon  ; 
Asked  the  stars  to  watch  over  his  grave ; 
Laid  his  pan  and  his  shovel  beside  him  ; 
Begged  Christ  the  poor  devil  to  save. 

We  laid  down  his  boots  for  his  pillow ; 

We  covered  his  face  with  his  cloak ; 
Tossed  up  for  his  knife  and  six-shooter 

And  the  pipe  he  will  never  more  smoke. 

We  rolled  to  his  head  a  big  bowlder, 
And  scrawled,  but  our  fingers  were  sore, 

"  He  done  his  levelest,  darndest, 
No  angel  could  ever  do  more." 


61 


MEGERSFONTEIN 


H 


"AYE  you  heard  the  story,  comrades, 

Of  our  Megersfontein  fight  ? 
How  our  regiment  was  ordered 

To  be  there  by  break  of  light  ? 
How  from  dewy  eve  to  midnight 

And  from  midnight  unto  day 
How  we  tramped  and  how  we  floundered, 

Lost  our  heads  and  lost  our  way  ? 
But  the  Highlanders  were  hungry  for  the  fray ! 

Oh,  the  stillness  of  that  midnight ! 

Oh,  that  stillness  worse  than  fear ! 
Oh,  the  stillness  of  our  breathing 

Lest  our  tread  some  picket  hear ! 
Just  as  day  its  eyelids  opened, 

While  we  marched  in  serried  rank, 
We  descried  a  lantern  swinging 

As  a  signal  from  the  bank. 
Now  the  Highlanders  were  at  the  Burghers'  flank ! 

Now  the  base-line  of  the  kopje 

Was  a  living  line  of  flame> 
And  from  thousands  in  those  trenches 

Leaden  hail  in  whirlwinds  came. 
62 


MEGERSFONTEIN 


At  that  moment  of  confusion 

Rang  out  orders,  strong  and  clear, 

Every  soldier  took  his  station, 

Held  his  breath  but  felt  no  fear. 
But  some  Highlanders,  0  Death,  thy  call  could  hear ! 

All  day  long  the  battle  rages, 

All  day  swings  the  scythe  of  death. 
Oft,  how  oft,  our  loyal  laddies 

Stormed  that  hill  with  panting  breath  ! 
All  day  long  the  wounded  lay  there 

In  that  blazing  southern  sun 
With  no  hand  their  tongues  to  moisten 

Till  the  day  was  lost  or  won. 
Still  the  Highlanders  made  answer,  gun  for  gun ! 

There  is  mourning  in  the  Highlands 

Where  those  laddies  loved  to  roam, 
Oh,  the  fainting,  fainting  heartaches ! 

Oh,  the  cheerless,  cheerless  home  ! 
When  the  mother  clasps  her  baby 

Closer,  closer  to  her  breast, 
What  is  this  her  pale  lips  whisper 

As  she  lays  him  in  his  nest  ? 
May  the  Highlanders,  0  Lord,  dear  Lord,  be  blest ! 


63 


A  LAMENT  FOR  McKINLEY 


A  LAMENT  FOR  McKINLEY 

A  TEMPEST  has  swept  o'er  the  land, 
It  has  bent  down  the  strong  and  the  weak 

And  the  high  and  the  low. 
A  specter  has  lifted  its  hand : 

It  has  smitten  our  hearts  till  the  springs 
Of  our  sorrow  o'erflow. 

T  is  the  chief  with  the  silvery  voice 
Who  has  fed  us  with  wisdom  as  sweet 

As  the  sweets  of  the  bee. 
'T  is  the  chieftain  who  twice  was  our  choice, 
But  to-night  a  new  light,  a  new  star 
In  the  sky  we  shall  see. 


COLONIAL   DAYS 


COLONIAL  DAYS 

'  rn  IS  twilight !  Night's  imperial  queen, 
-•-    High  in  the  gorgeous  empyrean  seen, 
Is  silvering  o'er  the  river  and  the  sea 
The  hillside  and  the  fragrant  lea. 
The  stars,  those  silent  monitors  above, 
Are  glowing  like  the  eyes  of  love. 
The  firmament,  that  vast  inverted  shield 
Which  gems  bestud  as  daisies  do  a  field, 
Gleams  with  a  shimmering  dust. 

The  rain  is  over.     The  fitful  gust 

That  shook  the  opals  from  the  leaves 

Has  stayed  its  rage.     Now  ocean's  bosom  heaves 

And  falls  with  breathings  long  and  deep 

As  if  some  wearied  giant  lay  asleep. 

His  breath !  It  drifts  along  the  tide 

As  did  some  serpent  o'er  its  surface  glide ; 

It  crawls  along  the  valley,  skirts  the  hill, 

It  hugs  the  bridge,  enfolds  the  mill, 

Earth's  form  with  shining  robe  invests. 

Now  Ocean's  sister  in  sweet  slumber  rests. 
The  toils  of  day  are  done. 
The  kine,  returning  with  the  setting  sun, 
65 


COLONIAL   DAYS 


Have  laid  them  down  to  sleep ; 
Beside  them  lie  the  white-flecked  sheep ; 
Mute  symbols  of  that  loved  conteut 
That  Nature  to  her  favorites  has  sent. 

The  farmer,  dragging  home  his  leaden  feet, 

His  children  run  with  greedy  hands  to  greet. 

The  lowing  ox,  the  merry  milkmaid's  song 

She  trilled  in  cadence  as  she  tripped  along, 

The  twittering  swallow,  —  these  are  heard  no  more. 

The  cricket  chirps  beneath  the  door ; 

The  owl,  night's  herald,  pipes  his  wail 

While  Twilight  draws  across  the  land  her  veil. 

Beside  the  road  with  flaming  torches  lined,  — 
Those  scarlet  maples  with  the  woodbine  twined,  — 
There,  where  four  forest  monarchs  meet 
Beside  that  path  long  trod  by  busy  feet, 
A  gambrel  meeting-house  is  seen. 
It  stands  within  the  templed  green 
Upon  whose  carpet  children  play 
While  dusk  is  lengthening  out  the  day. 

The  parson  lives  within  a  stride, 
His  joy  it  is  to  guide 
His  flock  along  the  way 
That  leads  from  death  to  endless  day. 
'T  is  he  who  cheers  the  widow's  lot, 
Reminds  her  God  a  sparrow  ne'er  forgot; 
He  greets  the  beggar  at  the  door, 
Divides  with  him  a  scanty  store ; 
66 


COLONIAL  DAYS 


He  grasps  the  drunkard  by  the  hand, 
Shows  him  where  breakers  sweep  the  strand ; 
He  lifts  the  fallen,  holds  the  proud  in  check 
With  specters  of  the  soul's  eternal  wreck. 

I  see  him  now,  his  God-kissed  face, 

His  bending  form,  his  gracious  pace, 

His  locks  that  float  like  snow  adown  the  wind, 

His  saintly  smile  that  speaks  his  saintly  mind. 

I  hear  his  soul-inspiring  word  — 

So  longed-for  since  but  seldom  heard !  — 

And  feel  the  pressure  of  that  hand 

That  had  no  fellow  in  the  land ; 

I  see  the  stealing  tear-drop  gleam 

When  told  that  I  must  shatter  home's  bright  dream 

And  woo  the  genii  of  some  other  sphere 

Where  Fortune  opes  her  gates  to  brighter  cheer. 

Farewell !     Beloved  shade  ! 

Long  since  Affection's  hand  has  laid 

Thee  with  the  fathers,  and  the  friends  loved  best. 

Oh,  well-earned  rest ! 

They  grasp  your  hand  upon  that  shore 

Your  shade  shall  haunt  forevermore. 

Time,  like  yon  river  still  shall  flow  ; 

Its  mists  shall  dim  the  long  ago, 

But  never  till  its  stream  runs  dry 

Shall  your  dear  image  leave  my  eye. 

Near  by  and  shaded  by  an  oak, 
Upon  whose  breast  long  centuries  have  broke, 
67 


COLONIAL   DAYS 


Whose  giant  arms,  extending  high, 

The  woodman  and  the  whirlwind  still  defy, 

Beside  a  brook  that  bounds  with  breakneck  haste 

To  join  the  whirling  river's  waste, 

The  village  blacksmith  swings  his  sledge. 

His  is  the  hand  that  gives  the  scythe  its  edge, 

Builds  the  wagon,  rims  the  wheel 

And  bends  the  stubborn  steel. 

With  sleeves  uprolled  and  chest  laid  bare, 
And  clouds  of  curling  hair, 
And  gnarled  arms  and  sturdy  grace, 
His  blazing  forge  reflected  on  his  face, 
He  is  the  counterpart  of  that  grim  god 
Who,  under  ^Etna,  War's  wild  chargers  shod. 
Withal  so  gentle  is  he  and  so  kind, 
The  children,  you  will  find, 
fWith  mouth  wide  open  and  wide  open  eye, 
Watching  the  lightning  from  his  anvil  fly, 
Or  playing  quoits  with  horseshoes  on  the  floor, 
Or  begging  one  to  hang  above  some  door. 

But  what  does  manhood  more  admire 
Than  where  our  daydreams  first  aspire 
And  young  Ambition  first  is  taught 
To  chase  no  longer  butterflies  by  thought  ? 
The  schoolhouse !  Red !     It  stands  alone 
Beside  the  road  with  thistles  sown. 
Here  Learning  dons  its  stole  each  year 
And  winter's  rage  awakes  no  fear. 


COLONIAL  DAYS 


The  master  comes,  so  tall  and  thin, 

A  stripling,  with  down  upon  his  chin. 

At  first  a  welcome  word  is  said, 

And  then  the  Testament  in  chorus  read ; 

And  then  our  Saviour's  hallowed  prayer 

Fills  with  frankincense  all  the  air. 

Who  sips  such  crystal  springs  at  first 

For  passion's  pools  will  ne'er  acquire  a  thirst. 

How  school-day  scenes  return  to  sight : 

The  athlete's  leap,  the  athlete's  might, 

His  flying  feet,  the  wrestler's  skill, 

The  boxer's  iron  hand  and  iron  will ! 

Who  does  not  love  the  well  thrown  quoit, 

The  flashing  oar,  the  Marathon  exploit, 

Or  smile  to  see  the  bully  thrown, 

The  coward  scorned,  the  brave  receive  his  own  ? 

Has  Age  more  wisdom  than  the  schoolboy  knew, 

That  Honor's  chaplets  crown  the  true  ? 

That  worth  holds  sway 

Where  true  crusaders  lead  the'  way  ? 

Where  War's  hoarse  thunders  roar, 

Its  lightnings  flash  and  bombshells  soar  ? 

Where  Genius  draws  the  living  line 

That  ages  hence  shall  call  the  form  divine  ? 

Or  clarion  lips  proclaim  the  word 

Our  sons  shall  wish  their  sons  had  heard  ? 

There,  in  the  shadow  of  that  hill 

Whose  brow  the  moonlight  kisses,  stands  the  mill ; 


COLONIAL   DAYS 


And  there  the  brawling  stream, 

Tumbling  in  foaming  cream, 

A  maelstrom  forms, 

Where  paper  boats  are  wrecked  in  paper  storma. 

The  dancing  moon  upon  the  spray 

Here  figures  many  a  silvery  fay. 

The  miller  here  from  dawn  to  dark  is  found. 

His  face  is  known  the  country  round. 

The  merry  twinkle  of  his  eye 

Bespeaks  a  heart  that  scorns  a  sigh. 

His  jests,  his  stories,  often  told, 

Pass  with  the  country  folk  for  gold  ; 

For  when  the  farmers  come  to  get  their  mail 

And  hear  the  latest  tale, 

They  love  to  linger  round  his  door. 

Here  also  is  the  village  store, 
Where  rustics  babble  of  a  statesman's  lore ; 
And  though  the  justice  is  the  senate's  chief 
The  miller's  wit  oft  brings  the  law  to  grief. 

There  stands,  some  rods  above  the  mill,  — 
'T  is  where  the  roadway  sweeps  around  the  hill,  - 
A  dingy  structure.     Here  the  law's  delay 
In  solemn  majesty  holds  sway. 
Within,  a  stove,  some  musty  books,  — 
Blind  guides  through  mazes  of  strange  crooks !  — 
A  table,  crazy  chair. 
How  moldy  age  perfumes  the  air  ! 
The  floor  is  worn  by  generations'  tread ; 
70 


COLONIAL   DAYS 


The  cobwebs  hang  in  festoons  overhead. 

These  walls,  how  oft  they  've  felt  the  jars 

Of  shafts  were  aimed  to  hit  the  stars  ! 

The  schemes  confided  to  their  ears  ! 

If  walls  had  tongues,  who  would  not  quake  with  fears  ? 

The  Justice,  kindly,  if  severe, 

Has  one  lame  leg  and  one  deaf  ear. 

His  head  is  bowed  beneath  the  books  he  knows, 

To  him  the  widow,  orphan,  bring  their  woes ; 

A  lonely  man,  he  leads  a  lonely  life, 

No  mother,  sister,  child  or  wife, 

His  true  companions  are  the  trees ; 

The  friends  who  never  prate  are  these ; 

But  sorrow  here  will  find  a  friend 

The  ruddy  drops  of  his  warm  heart  will  lend. 

Some  say  his  heart  is  dry  as  dust ; 

Some  say  the  toils  of  love  he  ne'er  would  trust. 

But  others  tell  about  a  maid, 

Now  lying  'neath  the  maples'  shade, 

Who,  once,  when  suns  were  bright  and  skies  were  blue 

And  cheeks  were  red  and  hearts  were  true, 

Youth's  bow  of  promise  hung  above, 

The  merry  student  showered  with  love. 

Betimes  on  moonlit  evenings  they  were  seen 

Upon  the  river's  silver  sheen, 

Or  strolling,  hand  in  hand,  along  the  shore 

Where  all  was  solitude  save  ocean's  roar. 

Some  say  caprice  dissolved  her  vow ; 
Some  say  her  spirit  would  not  bow 

71 


COLONIAL  DAYS 


Beneath  the  yoke  of  his  strong  will. 

Death  broke  the  chain  !     He  loved  her  still ; 

And  now  that  snows  becloud  his  head, 

When  all  the  world 's  asleep,  't  is  said 

He  and  the  stars  will  brave 

The  night-wind's  blast  above  her  grave. 

The  freezing  hand  of  Time 

That  chokes  the  current  of  the  thyme 

And  chains  the  torrent's  force 

Will  stay,  ere  long,  our  life  blood's  course. 

Within  yon  wall  the  churchyard  lies. 

Who  does  not  tread  its  paths  with  dreamy  eyes  ? 

The  current  of  whose  life  has  mn  so  slow 

Some  sunken  rocks  have  not  disturbed  its  flow  ? 

We  see  the  gateway  open  wide  ; 

The  villagers,  we  see  them  stand  aside ; 

We  see  the  clergyman  appear ; 

The  bearers  with  the  consecrated  bier 

Has  brought  so  many  a  tired  traveler  here. 

Alas,  familiar  scene ! 

We  see  the  long  procession  climb  the  green, 

The  melancholy  shadows  pass  along, 

The  black-robed  ghosts ;  the  feeble  and  the  strong ; 

The  mother  in  her  weeds ;  — 

Oh,  how  her  heart  with  anguish  bleeds !  — 

And  how  she  stretches  out  her  hungry  hands 

For  those  lost  cherubs,  flown  to  spirit-lands ! 

And  now  this  idol 's  dashed  to  earth ; 
72 


COLONIAL   DAYS 


And  yet  another  gem  of  priceless  worth 

She  knows  is  sparkling  in  her  Saviour's  crown  !  — 

The  father;  —  hopes  like  blossoms  trodden  down  ; 

Across  his  thorny  path  the  blast, 

So  many  a  wreck  on  many  a  shore  has  cast, 

Has  swept,  and  left  him  like  some  lonely  oak, 

Shorn  of  its  leaves,  its  branches  at  one  stroke ;  — 

A  crown,  a  galaxy  of  children,  this, 

This  is  the  noonday  of  all  bliss, 

It  is  the  mountain-top  of  happiness  ; 

But  0  the  hungry  heart  of  childlessness !  — 

Here  are  the  college  friends  his  falchion's  might 

Have  known  yet  loved  him  for  his  love  of  right ; 

Ah,  well,  how  well  their  tongues  can  sing 

Of  those  choice  hours  when  friendship's  spring 

Gushed  forth  Pierian  nectar  ;  yes,  they  know  well 

Of  hours  too  sacred  for  the  tongue  to  tell, 

When  hand  in  hand  and  heart  to  heart  the  friend 

That  sacred  thrill  along  the  sacred  cord  can  send ; 

These,  these  have  seen  the  Achilles  bow  unbent 

That  steel-shod  arrows  through  Wrong's  shield  has  sent; 

While  yet  the  primrose  blossoms  in  the  wild. 

And  in  their  midst  there  walks  a  little  child  ; 

'T  is  she  who  laid  those  pansies  on  his  shroud ; 

She  knows  that  heart  was  never  cold  or  proud  ; 

She  knows  how  quick  at  pain  the  tear  would  flow  ; 

She  knows  how  quick  at  wrong  the  fire  would  glow. 

The  cortege  moves  with  solemn  tread. 
With  bare  and  bended  head 

73 


COLONIAL   DAYS 


We  stand  beside  the  yawning  tomb  ;  — 

"What  echo  yet  has  crossed  that  gulf  of  gloom  ?  — 

The  bier  set  down,  the  service  said, 

We  shower  our  last,  last  kisses  on  his  head. 

The  chains  thou  forgest,  Death,  with  spirit  hands 

Thy  chains  are  true  Cyclopean  bands  ! 

We  leave  him  there  alone,  alone,  alone, 
An  Alp  of  promise  'neath  one  stone  ! 
And  turn  our  faces  towards  the  night, 
Cimmerian  night !  No  gleam,  no  glow  of  light ; 
For  now  eternal  winter  whitens  all  the  field 
Nor  does  Hope's  spring  a  single  sparkle  yield. 

When  limping  Age  descends  the  hill  of  life, 
Footsore,  heartsore,  aweary  of  all  strife, 
Scarred  like  a  Spartan,  his  last  battle  won, 
'T  is  Glory  covers  with  her  shield  her  son. 
Not  so  when  some  brave  youth  storms  up  the  hill, 
With  ne'er  a  thought  that  shower  of  shot  can  kill  I 
If  some  fell  bolt  shall  flash  from  summer  skies 
He  falls  unsung,  and  none  shall  close  his  eyes. 

There  is  another  mound  near  by  this  green 
I  oft  have  sat  beside.     My  fancy's  queen 
Is  here  enshrined.     It  is  a  lonely  mound. 
But  many  a  night  upon  this  ground, 
Choking  with  sobs,  I  've  knelt. 
Such  anguish  only  filial  hearts  have  felt ! 
Here  lies  the  form  I  Ve  loved  to  draw 
Until  the  face,  the  eyes,  the  soul  I  saw ; 
74 


COLONIAL   DAYS 


An  eye  of  love,  a  face  of  kiiid  command, 

A  soul  that  swept  the  strings  from  sweet  to  grand. 

Ye  everglades  !    Ye  dappled  dells, 

Where  now  the  dryad,  now  the  hyad  dwells  ! 

Ye  groves  1  Ye  stately  colonnades 

Where  singing  pines  their  surging  arches  raise 

And  nature's  minstrels  trill  their  hymns  of  praise, 

Ye  were  her  early  loves,  her  earliest  home ; 

Here  childhood  with  the  wood-nymphs  loved  to  roam. 

My  Mother !     Would  your  child  had  known 

Your  mind,  your  soul,  your  spirit,  ere  't  had  flown ! 

Had  felt  your"  arms  around  him  twine ; 

Had  seen  your  face  with  love's  true  luster  shine ; 

Had  known  your  wealth  of  peace  and  sympathy, 

Your  truth,  your  faith,  your  hope,  your  piety ; 

Had  felt  the  glow,  the  fire  of  that  soul 

That  burned  to  have  your  son  love  Honor's  goal ! 

When  bent  with  care,  when  spent  with  toil, 
When  books  were  nightmares,  life  a  noisy  broil, 
Oh,  could  I  on  your  breast  have  laid  my  head ! 
When  stretched  on  disappointment's  bed, 
WTith  scorpions  nesting  in  my  hair, 
And  none  to  soothe  these  fiends  of  care, 
0  could,  could  I  have  whispered  in  your  ear 
The  doubts,  the  fears  it  was  attuned  to  hear  ! 

Who  loves  not  laughing  brooks  and  dancing  dells  ? 

Who  loves  not  sparkling  draughts  from  moss-grown  wells  ? 

75 


COLONIAL   DAYS 


Loves  not  the  song  of  birds,  the  hum  of  bees  ? 
The  new-mown  hay  that  scents  the  evening  breeze  ? 
What  rural  heart  loves  not  a  rural  home  ? 
Loves  not  at  dusk  through  violet  vales  to  roam  ? 
When  Autumn  paints  the  leaves  with  rainbow-rays 
The  cattle  round  the  farmer's  door-step  graze, 
The  reapers  bind  in  sheaves  the  golden  grain, 
Big  oxen  homeward  tug  the  creaking  wain, 
What  eye  but  dances  at  the  sight  ? 

What  maiden's  heart  but  bounds  with  wild  delight 

When  harvest  moons  distil  their  crystal  gleams, 

The  lanterns  deck  the  dusky  beams, 

The  barn  is  piled  with  rich,  ripe  corn 

Kind  Nature  empties  from  her  horn  ? 

What  shouts,  what  wild  hurrahs  we  hear 

When  Ruth  unhusks  the  speckled  ear 

And  swains  demand  the  forfeit  due ! 

The  sun  that  browns  their  faces  warms  their  hearts, 

The  breeze  that  steels  their  sinews  knows  no  arts. 

As  free  as  air,  as  happy  as  the  roe, 
They  eat  the  bread  a  frugal  hand  can  sow, 
No  cares,  no  debts,  some  honey  in  the  hive. 
A  country  life 's  the  happiest  life  to  live  ! 

'T  is  now  the  bearded  grain 
Is  threshed  and  piled  upon  the  wain ; 
'T  is  now  unto  the  mill  't  is  drawn 
And  ground  to  flour  or  changed  for  corn. 
'T  is  now  we  see  the  bursting  barn, 

76 


COLONIAL   DAYS 


The  housewife  spinning  stocking-yarn, 
The  apples  groaning  in  the  press, 
The  shuttle  weaving  winter's  dress. 
'T  is  now  the  leaves,  in  eddying  waves, 
Seek  in  some  sheltered  nook  their  graves. 

And  now,  't  is  of  all  scenes  the  best !  — 
The  husbandman,  his  toil  well  blest, 
Around  the  board  his  thanks  returns 
For  bounties  his  hard  labor  earns. 

Who  has  not  seen  the  farmer's  home  ?  — 
It  has  no  equal  'neath  earth's  dome !  — 
His  honest  heart,  his  buxom  wife, 
His  children  bubbling  o'er  with  life  ? 
When  Winter  scars  the  face  of  earth 
No  goblins  dance  around  his  hearth ; 
For  Fortune  her  best  gifts  bequeathes 
And  binds  his  brow  with  her  best  wreaths. 

Where,  where 's  a  scene  of  such  delight 
As  greets  the  eye  some  Autumn  night, 
When  day  is  done,  the  cattle  fed, 
And,  ere  they  take  themselves  to  bed, 
The  father,  mother,  all  enjoy 
An  hour  of  rest,  without  alloy  ? 
Before  the  hearth  the  settle  stands ; 
The  eldest  reads  some  tale  of  foreign  lands ; 
The  embers  dance,  the  taper  burns, 
The  mother's  hand  the  flax-wheel  turns. 
77 


COLONIAL   DAYS 


The  clock  strikes  ten.     'T  is  time  for  bed, 

The  father  takes  The  Book  has  led 

His  feet  for  years.     All  else  is  laid  aside, 

And  reads  that  psalm  that  chokes  all  pride : 

The  Lord  my  shepherd  is.     His  will 

Leads  me  through  pastures  green,  by  waters  still. 

I  walk  through  Death's  dark  door,  but  fear  no  harm. 

Thou  art  my  rock,  my  staff,  my  trusty  arm. 

Then  kneeling  all  around 

That  shrine  in  pious  households  found, 

The  father  begs  with  reverent  zeal 

For  health,  for  pardon  for  each  sin, 

The  dews  of  heaven  on  their  kin. 

These  homes  !     They  made  our  fathers  strong. 

'T  is  these  that  steeled  their  hearts  'gainst  wrong. 

'T  was  Faith  that  freedom's  banner  bore. 

When  Faith  is  gone  strength  is  no  more. 

'T  was  Faith  that  set  this  nation  free ; 

It  steered  the  Pilgrims  o'er  the  sea ; 

This  shibboleth  inspired  our  brave 

To  face  with  heart  a  traitor's  grave  ; 

It  made  our  Cincinnatus  great ; 

It  held  the  hand  that  held  the  helm  of  state. 

When  faith  in  God  is  spurned  with  scorn 
Brave  sons  and  true  no  longer  born, 
Simplicity  wears  mourning  shrouds, 
And  Greed  stalks  through  admiring  crowds ; 
Then  Honor  fails  and  high  endeavor, 
Then  sinks  our  country's  sun,  aye,  sinks  forever. 

78 


AN   IDYL   OF  MT.   DESERT 


AN  IDYL  OF  MT.  DESERT 

BOLD  crags,  bald  mountains  greet  the  eye, 
Deep  bays,  tall  cliffs  that  hug  the  seas, 
Dark  glens  that  circle  desert  wastes 
With  sentry  lines  of  trees, 

Long  palisades  where  ocean's  voice 
Through  caves  and  fluted  caverns  play ; 

Green  inlets  where  the  fisher's  boat 
Floats  drowsily  all  day. 

A  stillness  sits  upon  the  shore 

Like  mist.     No  sound  except  the  sea 

That  murmurs  some  low  madrigal 
And  sets  the  fancy  free. 

There  was  no  shelter  save  one  hut ; 

No  beacon  save  one  look-out  light 
Stood  guard  against  the  tempest's  rage 

And  broke  the  gloom  of  night, 

When  one  bold  yachtsman,  sailing  by, 
Descried  the  grandeur  of  this  isle 

And,  like  Columbus,  kissed  the  soil 
And  lingered  here  a  while. 
79 


AN   IDYL   OF  MT.   DESERT 


Another  year  he  came  again 

And  built  an  eyrie  on  the  shore, 
And  other  birds  of  passage  lured 

These  wonders  to  explore. 

They  rambled  round  the  cliffs  and  coast, 
They  found  a  path,  a  woodman's  road, 

That  scrambled  up  the  mountain-side 
And  brought  back  such  a  load 

Of  jewels  Nature  loves  the  best ; 

They  chased  the  hare  and  stalked  the  deer ; 
The  trout  that  ne'er  had  seen  man's  face 

His  shadow  learned  to  fear. 

Nature,  fair  nature,  here  was  throned,  — 

As  Eve,  our  mother,  was  in  Eden, 
A  headland  for  her  queenly  seat ; 

But  not  one  courtier  even 

Now  kneels  before  her  royal  feet, 
Or  lisps  her  homage  in  sweet  phrase, 

Or  tries  with  rustic  courtesy 
Her  woodland  grace  to  praise. 

The  change  !  The  change !  The  saddening  change ! 

Those  "first  who  came  vaunted  their  bliss; 
Then  others,  touched  by  passion's  wand,  — 

These  longed  the  queen  to  kiss. 
80 


AN   IDYL   OF   MT.   DESERT 


No  more,  alas,  the  glades  resound 
With  nature's  minstrelsy !  Ah,  long, 

Ah,  long  ago  they  left  this  home, 
Singing  their  farewell  song. 

Now  villas,  gardens,  line  the  coast 
And  guard  like  sentinels  the  bay ; 

Those  glens  that  loved  the  eagle's  cry 
Now  ring  with  laughter  gay ! 

That  great  god  Pan  whom  once  we  loved 
And  wooed  and  wooed  from  morn  till  e'en 

Has  now  no  courtiers  round  his  shrine ; 
Euphrosyne  is  Queen ! 

Now  Mirth  and  Gayety  and  Fun 

Have  chased  those  woodland  nymphs  away, 
And  Comus  with  his  merry  crew 

Turns  darkness  into  day  ! 

Yes,  when  the  ghosts  of  night  appear, 
Song,  also,  leaves  her  hiding  place 

And  drives  them  back  and  scares  the  nymphs 
We  loved  with  tender  grace. 

And  Puck,  the  fairy,  too,  appears, 
That  roistering  reveller  of  the  night, 

And  Bacchus  brings  his  brimming  cup 
And  bids  our  hearts  be  light ; 
81 


AN   IDYL   OF   MT.   DESERT 


And  one,  —  beware  his  roguish  eye 
And  radiant  face  !  that  jolly  elf 

Whose  smile  bewitches  every  one, 
Sweet  Cupid's  charming  self. 

But  let  the  fun  and  mirth  roll  on ! 

Let  song  and  dance  have  their  full  sway 
Come  Truth  and  Beauty,  hand  in  hand ; 

Let  Love  direct  your  way. 

We  who  were  caught  by  your  sweet  wile 
Have  fond  remembrance  of  this  isle 

Whose  seas  and  glens  alike  beguile, 
Whose  mountains  wear  a  smile. 

'T  was  here  I  saw  my  Genevieve, 
My  Love,  my  Queen,  my  Genevieve ! 

'T  was  just  as  Dian  'gan  to  weave 
The  silvery  veil  of  eve. 

She  seemed  some  spirit  of  the  night 
Just  lighting  from  some  starry  height, 

Entrancing  my  bewildered  sight, 
A  vision  of  delight. 


82 


FAME 


FAME 

HOW  many  swains  she  jilts,  that  jade,  fair  Fame 
And  yet  the  poet  burns  his  midnight  oil, 
The  soldier  coins  his  blood  to  buy  a  name ; 

The  patriot  wades  through  pools  of  filth  and  moil, 
E'en  he  who  lifts  the  fallen  does  this  too; 
Not  one  believes  the  centuries  say  true;  — 
Shadows  we  are  and  shadows  we  pursue. 


83 


MAGDALENE'S  LETTER 


MAGDALENE'S  LETTER 

YOU  ask  me  why  I  lead  this  life, 
This  life  so  full  of  aching  strife ; 
Why  I  am  not  a  happy  wife ; 
You  wish  to  know  my  story. 

You  ask  why  beauty  such  as  mine 
Is  stained  and  spoilt  by  men  and  wine 
When  it  might  round  some  cottage  twine, 
A  trailing  morning-glory ; 

You  wonder  why  I  never  try 
To  spare  the  luster  of  my  eye, 
And  why  I  often  long  to  die 
And  end  this  long  carousal ; 

Why  all  this  glitter  has  no  charm, 
And  why  my  cough  gives  no  alarm, 
And  what  strange  fortune  came  to  harm 
A  holier  espousal. 

Some  months  ago  my  mother  died ; 
'T  was  he  who  kissed  my  tears  aside, 
And  with  his  fond  caresses  tried 
To  lighten  sorrow's  dolor. 
84 


MAGDALENE'S   LETTER 


He  said  he  felt  as  sad  as  I ; 
And  many  a  tear  bedimmed  his  eye, 
And  many,  many  a  time  he  'd  try, 
Those  ghosts  of  gloom  to  frighten. 

He  made  a  rose-bed  of  her  grave ; 
Oh,  he  was  gentle,  kind  and  brave ! 
Why,  when  my  grief  rose  like  a  wave, 
'T  was  he  my  load  would  lighten  I 

Now  blame  me,  sir,  if  now  you  can. 
His  kindness  every  wish  outran ; 
Those  long,  long  days  he  made  a  span. 
Must  this  life  last  forever  ? 


85 


SONG   OF  THE   REVOLUTION 


SONG  OF  THE  REVOLUTION 

TT1  IS  midnight  in  Paris.     Now  the  tocsin  will  speak, 

-L    It  will  waken  the  demons  of  War  with  its  wails, 
Revolution  and  Riot.     Hear  Anarchy  shriek  ! 

Hear  the  Reds  of  the  Midi !  They  have  marched  from 

Marseilles, 
And  are  massed  on  the  bridge,  red  hot  with  their  wrongs. 

Refrain. 

Qa,  ira,  Qa,  ira  !  vive  le  son,  vive  le  son ! 

Dansez  la  Carmagnole ;  vive  le  son  du  canon ! 

Down,  down  from  your  throne !     Down,  Louis  Capet ! 
Those  stones  in  your  house  were  cemented  with  blood. 
Tear,  tear  off  that  crown  from  your  Austrian  Queen ! 
Let  her  work,  let  her  sweat,  we  will  show  her  the  way. 
The   tumbrels  are  coming  !     The  guillotine's  flood 
Will  wash  out  the  prints  of  your  tyranny  clean. 
This  mob?  And  these  torches?  These  guns?  And  these 

cheers  ? 
They  're  the  death-dance  of  kings  !  Make  ready  their  biers ! 


Refrain. 

86 


SONG   OF  THE   REVOLUTION 

See  the  Tuileries  windows,  they  blaze  with  your  guns ; 

For  your  minions  are  there,  they  will  slay  us  like  sheep. 
See  the  Swiss  in  that  doorway  !    Santerre  leads  the  Guard  ! 

We  '11  not  fail ;  we  '11  not  falter ;  for  Freedom  would  weep 
And  the  hand  on  the  dial  of  Time  we  'd  retard. 
Hear  that  gun !  That 's  our  signal  I  Load  full  and  aim 

well! 
Up,  up  with  the  Tricolor !  'T  is  fleur-de-lis'  knell. 

Refrain. 


87 


THE   SPECTER   OF  LOCHES 


THE  SPECTER  OF  LOCHES 

AWAKE,  thou  specter  of  Loches  !  Tell  the  tale 
Of  the  skeleton  walled  in  your  dungeon  of  stone ; 
Him  clad  in  full  mail,  and  with  crossbow  and  spear, 
Who  for  ages  had  dwelt  there  unknown ; 

Till  the  warder  one  day  the  grim  portal  reopened 
And  found  the  frail  form  of  a  man ;  he  was  chained  ; 

And  his  tissues  at  once  fell  away  into  ashes 
And  his  skeleton  only  remained. 

"  'T  is  the  tale  of  a  knight  who  was  true  to  his  knighthood. 

I  was  left  o'er  my  suzerain's  wife  to  keep  ward 
While  he  went  to  the  East  with  the  hosts  of  the  Prophet 

To  rescue  the  tomb  of  our  Lord. 

"  I  was  true  to  my  mission,  was  faithful,  was  valiaat. 

I  guarded  the  donjon,  I  guarded  the  gate ; 
I  suffered  no  stain  to  find  place  on  my  scutcheon ; 

So  Fame  upon  Honor  shall  wait. 

"  Ah,  sad,  doubly  sad  is  it,  calumny  ever 
Should  seek  for  its  arrow  a  glittering  mark ; 

Ah,  sad  that  the  fires  of  jealousy  kindle 
From  a  slur  as  a  flame  from  a  spark ! 

88 


THE   SPECTER   OF  LOCHES 


"  When  his  pilgrimage  ended  the  lord  of  the  castle 
Returned  to  his  home,  with  the  hate  of  a  houud ; 

He  buried  his  vassal  alive  in  this  dungeon, 
Down,  down,  far  under  the  ground." 

The  true-hearted,  sometimes,  have  had  for  their  guerdon 
In  their  lives  an  injustice  too  awful  for  tears, 

But  honor  at  death  that  was  lasting  as  language, 
And  hundreds  to  weep  at  their  biers. 


DEATH   WOULD   NOT   WAIT 


DEATH  WOULD  NOT  WAIT 

WAITED  as  long  as  I  could; 

Ah;  but  death  would  not  wait ! 
And  the  wings  of  the  wind  were  too  slow 
To  bring  my  dear  Love  to  my  side. 
When  that  specter  first  knocked  at  my  door 
I  begged  the  stern  king  for  one  hour ; 
He  granted  my  quest.     But  my  Love  did  not  come. 
I  begged  for  one  more  ; 
And  the  glutton,  too,  granted  me  this. 
That  pittance  soon  past,  but  my  Love  was  not  here 
Another  I  begged. 
But  he  knocked  at  my  door 
Till  his  knuckle-bones  rang. 
I  begged  for  a  half. 
But  his  knockings  still  thundered 
And  pounded  my  door ; 
For  ten,  for  five  minutes,  I  begged  ; 
His  knockings  have  ceased  ; 
And  I  pray  to  the  winds  to  be  fleet 
And  the  seas  to  be  calm 
And  bring  me  my  Love  ere  I  die. 
Oh,  bring  me  one  touch  of  his  hand, 
One  touch  or  one  kiss, 
Or  one  look  at  his  dear,  loving  eyes ! " 

90 


DEATH  WOULD   NOT  WAIT 


No  kiss,  and  no  step  and  no  sound ! 

And  she  smoothed  down  her  hair  and  her  robe, 

And  she  folded  her  arms  on  her  breast, 

And  she  turned  to  the  wall  her  sweet  face, 

And  said  as  she  struggled  for  breath : 

"  Tell  my  Love  that  I  waited  as  long  as  I  could." 


91 


MOTHER 


MOTHER 

WHEN  mother  's  away  our  house  is  a  tomb  ; 
Its  light  has  gone  out.     'T  is  as  silent  as  death ! 
We  wander  about  and  we  visit  her  room 

And  we  walk  among  echoes  and  we  smother  our  breath, 

And  wonder  if  ever  this  silence  will  end, 
If  ever  the  sun  will  come  out  of  this  cloud, 

And  gladness  and  music  and  merriment  send, 

And  lift  from  our  hallways  and  dungeons  this  shroud. 

We  ask  ourselves  whether  some  other  kind  friend 
Would  fill  mother's  mission  and  gladden  that  home, 

And  why  did  they  ask  us  our  sunshine  to  lend ; 
And  wonder  if  ever  next  Sunday  will  come. 

We  write  her  a  letter  each  morn  and  each  night, 
And  look  for  her  letter  each  night  and  each  morn. 

But  letters  are  nothing,  not  love  and  not  light ! 
They  bring  us  no  kisses ;  they  make  us  forlorn. 

Six  days  before  Sunday !     Six  long,  hungry  days 
Of  twenty-four  hours !     And  each  hour  like  night ; 

Yet  hours  had  minutes,  and  minutes  had  rays 
When  mother  was  here,  her  smile  was  so  bright. 

92 


MOTHER 


What  word  is  like  mother  ?    What  word  is  so  sweet  ? 

What  word  is  so  lovely  ?    What  word  is  so  dear  ? 
It  was  mother  who  guided  our  tottering  feet ; 

It  was  mother  stood  near  when  the  specter  was  here. 


ALCLEUS 


ALC^EUS 


DEATH  has  not  conquered  !     Often  has  some  cloud 
Stolen  at  sunset  o'er  some  mountain  height, 
Folding  its  grandeur  in  a  ghostly  shroud, 

Hiding  its  beauty  from  our  straining  sight ; 
And  often  left  the  towering  head  still  proud, 
Still  gleaming  in  a  glow  of  glorious  light, 
A  glow  more  bright  that  mist  conceals  from  view, 
The  form,  the  face,  the  majesty  we  knew. 


ii 

That  mystery  of  death !    No  eye  of  age 
Has  e'er  unveiled  its  secret  to  the  light, 

No  century  has  spelt  its  cypher  page, 
No  ghost  retrod  its  labyrinthine  night. 

And  yet  there  is  a  voice  that  stills  its  rage 
And  puts  the  phantoms  we  so  fear  to  flight ; 

And  this  voice  says  :  This  is  not  all  of  life  ; 

There  is  a  realm  beyond  ;  't  is  free  from  strife. 


ALC^EUS 


in 

In  the  long,  long  night  of  time  that  now  ensues, 
For  cycles  hence,  oh,  would  it  were  for  aye ! 

The  youth  who  virtue's  thorny  path  pursues 
Or  sighs  ambition's  dizzy  height  to  try, 

Who  dreams  that  merit  always  meets  its  due, 
And  arrows  further  fly  when  aimed  full  high, 

One  star  shall  see ;  't  is  Hesperus  of  old ; 

Which  to  the  wondering  Magi  Bethlehem  told ! 

IV 

Who  are  the  poet's  lovers  ?    They  're  the  young. 

Gray-bearded  men  love  scepters,  sheaves  of  wealth. 
It  was  of  hope,  of  love,  our  poet  sung. 

These  weave  the  dreams  of  youth,  and  joy  and  health. 
His  harp  to  rhythmic  airs  was  always  strung  ; 

These  take  our  senses  prisoner  by  stealth  ; 
They  grasp  our  fainting  courage  by  the  hand 
And  lure  our  weary  feet  to  fairyland. 


Sweet  Minstrelsy  !     Thou  tam'st  the  savage  breast. 

'T  was  Orpheus,  in  those  far-off  mythic  times 
Who  soothed  the  winds,  the  tempests  to  their  rest ; 

He  bade  the  trees  obey  his  lyric  chimes, 
The  flocks  and  herds  acknowledge  his  behest, 

Nomadic  tribes  to  love  his  runic  rhymes ; 
He  strung  the  pristine  lyre  that  even  now 
Will  make  the  stateliest  head  in  suppliance  bow. 

95 


ALGOUS 

VI 

Imagination  !     Here  's  the  rarest  boon 
The  genie  of  our  birth  has  ever  given  ! 

This  makes  the  midnight  of  our  lives  high  noon, 
It  robes  its  drudgery  in  the  rays  of  Heaven ; 

This  will  the  martyr's  wail  so  sweetly  tune 

That  all  who  hear  it  wish  they  could  have  striven. 

Scotia's  sweet  singer,  following  his  plow, 

Bestrode  Castilian  fields,  he  scarce  knew  how. 

VII 

Sweet  Hope !    You  buoy  the  shipwrecked  lad 
When  tempests  howl  and  madness  rules  the  wave, 

And  when  the  straining  rigging  shrieks  its  sad, 
Mad  requiem !    You  give  him  heart  to  brave 

Gaunt  Famine  till,  a  skeleton,  he  is  glad 
To  eat  the  flesh  his  loathing  senses  crave ; 

You  are  a  child  of  the  Imagination ; 

That  dearest,  choicest  work  of  God's  creation ! 

VIII 

0  Faith  !  'T  is  with  your  eyes  the  Christians  gaze 
With  pious  rapture  on  the  Holy  Grail ; 

'T  is  with  your  hands  the  priests  the  chalice  raise ; 
'T  is  on  your  knees  they  kiss  the  emblems  frail ! 

'Tis  Faith  that  tunes  the  myriad  choirs  of  praise 
On  Passion  Week ;  Faith  hears  the  Saviour  hail 

The  Father,  hears  that  agonizing  cry, 

Eloi,  Eloi,  lama  sabachthani. 


ALC^US 

IX 

The  hope  of  immortality,  that  flower 

That  bloomed  in  Eden,  that  amaranth  thatLgrows 
Perennial  in  the  mind ;  that  mystic  power 

That  stills  our  fears  to  rest  and  calms  the  throes 
Of  unbelief;  and,  like  a  springtide  shower, 

Feeds  the  seeds  of  worth  where'er  life's  river  flows, 
This,  too,  is  a  child  of  the  Imagination : 
And  is  the  guiding  star  of  our  salvation. 


Fancy,  this  is  the  jewel  of  the  mind, 

The  starry  cynosure  of  wondering  eyes, 
The  Kohinoor  the  miners  seldom  find. 

'T  is  this  that  made  the  bard  of  Chios  rise 
Like  Himalaya,  miles  above  mankind. 

It  plumes  the  wing  on  which  the  seraph  flies 
Whom  Thetis  folded  in  her  flowing  arms 
Before  the  world  had  learned  Ithuriel's  charms. 

XI 

Tis  this  and  sympathy  our  poet  joins; 

His  rhyme  and  rhythmic  measure  charm  our  ear ; 
His  pictures  and  the  imagery  he  coins, 

The  symphonies  of  life  his  soul  can  hear, 
The  mysteries  he  plucks  from  Nature's  loins, 

The  springs  whence  flow  the  sigh,  the  smile,  the  tear ; 
Why  hearts  respond  to  heart's  inspiring  beat 
Our  poet's  eye  could  see,  his  tongue  repeat. 

97 


XII 

But  rhyme  cannot  nor  imagery  alone 

Complete  the  song  our  voices  love  to  sing ; 

Our  ears  may  hear,  our  hearts  remain  a  stone ; 
A  coin,  though  stamped,  may  not  possess  the  ring 

For  which  no  other  virtues  can  atone, 

The  something  that  the  unconscious  tear  can  bring 

Unwittingly  to  sympathetic  eyes 

And  lure  the  soul  from  earth  to  sun-lit  skies. 

XIII 

This  is  the  secret  of  the  bard  we  mourn  ! 

His  was  a  lyre  attuned  to  every  wrong ! 
No  tale  of  sadness  came  to  him  outworn ; 

His  back  could  feel  the  toiler's  biting  thong ; 
Could  weep  with  Chloe  from  her  mother  torn, 

And  coin  her  tears  to  words  in  freedom's  song. 
Nor  was  his  rare  alembic  drugged  with  gall ; 
He  lured  all  hearts  to  wish  the  tyrant's  fall. 

XIV 

The  poet  of  the  heart  is  dearest  far 
To  prince  or  peasant,  all  of  every  race. 

He  does  not  ride  that  grand  Miltouic  car, 

In  gorgeous  panoplies  bedecked,  through  space ; 

Nor  does  he  drive  those  foaming  steeds  of  war 
Great  Homer  drove  at  such  Parnassian  pace ; 

Nor  chain  the  hurricane,  nor  ride  the  storm, 

Nor  stalk  Hell's  streets  in  grand  Dautean  form. 

93 


ALGOUS 

xv 

Those  fierce  tempestuous  passions  of  the  heart, 
Conceived  of  madness  under  midnight's  dome, 

That  fire  our  souls ;  that  rend  old  friends  apart 
And  make  the  battlefield  a  hecatomb ; 

That  chain  the  patriots  to  the  headsman's  cart ; 
Sending  his  wife  through  slums  of  want  to  roam; 

Make  life  a  desert,  hope  a  setting  star, 

Dear  heaven  itself  mirage  discerned  afar ; 

XVI 

That  wrath  that  threw  round  Heaven  a  blazing  zone 

Of  mad  rebellion,  scaled  her  jasper  wall 
And  made  her  vast  champaign  with  horror  groan 

Beneath  the  demon-host's  advance  and  fall, 
Whose  thundering  squadrons  shook  Jehovah's  throne 

But  brought  damnation  on  the  heads  of  all ;  — 
'T  is  that  sublime,  Titanic,  hellish  rage 
The  grandest  poets  paint  upon  their  page ! 

XVII 

Heroic  minds  heroic  actions  tell. 

Like  organ  tones  in  some  cathedral  vault 
Their  deep-resounding  chants  through  the  ages  swell ; 

They  march  with  Atlas-stride,  and  never  halt, 
Through  heaven's  highways  and  through  the  dens  of  hell, 

Sublime,  Olympian,  limping  with  no  fault. 
Our  eyes  dilate  with  wonder  at  their  flight ; 
So  Andes,  sun-crowned  Andes,  swells  our  sight ! 


ALC^EUS 

xvni 

But  the  poet  of  the  people  and  the  home, 
'T  is  he  who  hears  the  harmonies  of  life ! 

He  takes  our  hand  through  Death's  dark  dale  to  roam ; 
He  knows  the  balm  will  heal  the  wounds  of  strife ; 

He  treads  the  slopes  where  hillside  torrents  foam ; 
He  feels  the  woes  of  maiden  and  of  wife ; 

When  bending  'neath  some  load  he  is  the  friend 

Who  courage,  strength,  philosophy,  can  lend. 

XIX 

He  knows  the  keys  unlock  the  mighty  past ; 

Has  seen  the  lightnings  round  old  Sinai  play ; 
Knows,  too,  the  joys  that  stay,  the  joys  that  last 

No  longer  than  the  dew  endures  the  day ; 
He  tells  us  when  our  shallop  sails  too  fast, 

And  shows  where  Scylla  and  Charybdis  lay ; 
Is  ne'er  so  blind  he  could  not  see  a  child 
And  win  a  seraph's  smile  whene'er  he  smiled. 

xx 

Our  poet's  kindliness,  his  truth,  his  grace 
Made  each  beholder  Virtue's  self  revere ; 

He  had  a  poem  written  in  his  face, 

A  childlike  heart,  the  wisdom  of  a  seer, 

A  soul  so  kingly  that  he  loved  his  race, 

A  faith  in  man  that  dulled  the  skeptic's  spear ; 

A  home  where  Genius,  Love,  and  Sympathy 

Walked  hand  in  hand  in  sweetest  company. 

100 


ALC^US 

XXI 

When  young  Ambition  craved  a  helping  hand, 
Footsore  and  spent,  't  was  he  who  saw  his  need! 

He  knew  the  beacon  lights  of  every  land, 
Yet  could  with  pitying  grace  a  beggar  feed ; 

And  ere  the  glass  of  Time  had  run  its  sand 
He  could  with  eyes  of  faith  its  lesson  read 

And  meet  the  Angel  at  the  opening  door 

With  ne'er  a  sigh  and  ne'er  a  wish  for  more. 

XXII 

How  sweet,  how  winsome  is  that  modesty 

That  does  not  love  the  pride  of  Mammon's  eye, 

Nor  deem  the  world's  opinion  heresy ; 
Nor  strive  to  cut  the  sun-coursed,  upper  sky 

On  pinions  plumed  for  lyric  poetry 

As  if  the  lark  the  condor's  flight  would  try ! 

Twice  blest  is  he  who  knows  what  he  can  do 

And  will  with  faith  the  path  God  blazed  pursue ! 

XXIII 

Sweet  Modesty !     Thou  lily  of  the  mind, 

Thou  fairest  in  its  garden !    Queen  of  flowers ! 

Hunt  where  you  will  its  fellow  none  will  find. 
It  paints  the  rainbow  o'er  our  saddest  hours. 

This  is  the  grace  that  never  is  unkind 

And  ne'er  above  its  frail  companion  towers ; 

It  loves  the  lowest  not  the  highest  seat ; 

The  lowliest  are  the  heaviest  heads  of  wheat ! 

101 


ALGOUS 

xxrv 

The  mystery  of  literary  fame 

Its  witchery  and  chance  to  him  revealed, 
And  gladly  told  its  secret ;  why  the  name 

Of  some  called  great  the  mist  of  time  concealed, 
And  why  the  spring,  whence  streams  of  learning  came, 

Had  watered  broad  savannas,  has  congealed : 
Not  all  the  great  Parnassian  heights  have  prest, 
But  those,  those  chiefly,  who  could  paint  the  best. 

XXV 

Expression !    Here,  oh,  here 's  the  wraith  allures 
The  mind  and  wakes  the  attention  from  the  Dead! 

'T  is  this  enthrals !    This  listeners  procures ! 

This  makes  the  wise  man  and  the  fool  both  read. 

When  dulness  only  dull-eyed  sleep  secures 
This  bends  the  knee  and  bows  the  head. 

As  Homer  spoke  the  king  of  gods  would  speak 

If  great  Olympus'  king  had  spoken  Greek. 

XXVI 

One  other  truth  this  genie,  too,  repeated,  — 

That  mysticism  is  not  poetry; 
Although  the  eye,  blind  eye !  has  oft  been  cheated, 

Lured  by  this  strange,  deceitful  fantasy ; 
Our  appetites,  too,  pall  if  often  treated 

To  unwinnowed  bran  and  sun-baked  heresy. 
The  sons  of  Fame  strike  home  with  cutting  phrase ; 
The  sword  that  finds  the  heart,  't  is  this  they  raise  I 

102 


ALC^US 

XXVII 

Near  by  the  classic  groves  of  learning  where 
Our  Alma  Mater  rears  her  reverend  head, 

There,  where  the  Sun-god's  children  breathe  the  air, 
The  truly  great  have  breathed,  and  where  they're  fed 

On  that  ambrosia  makes  the  mind  immortal,  there 
God's  Acre  is,  a  city  of  the  dead, 

Whose  pauper  palaces  enshrine  the  dust 

Of  those  who  once  were  faithful,  brave,  and  just. 

XXVIII 

Is  there  a  rood  of  earth  within  the  lands 
Fair  Freedom  calls  her  dearest  heritage, 

Except  where  England's  august  Abbey  stands, 
And  Pere  la  Chaise's  palatial  hermitage, 

That  holds  more  souls,  once  led  by  Freedom's  wand, 
More  souls  whose  fire  has  lighted  Freedom's  page, 

Than  wait  the  ferryman's  stern  nod  beside 

The  leaden  waters  of  yon  Stygian  tide  ? 

XXIX 

Dear  Campo  Santo !    Guard  thou  well  the  dust 
Of  two  of  godlike  faith  and  childlike  heart ! 

Was  ever  friendship  a  more  sacred  trust  ? 
Did  ever  virtue  wield  a  manlier  dart  ? 

The  world  on  both  its  choicest  laurels  thrust, 
And  found  them  ne'er  from  duty  once  apart. 

They  both  bore  here  a  loved  and  honored  name, 

And  both  left  here  a  living,  breathing  fame. 

103 


ALCLEUS 

XXX 

One  hurled  the  flaming  thunderbolts  of  state 
"  And  was  the  tribune  of  a  tongue-tied  race, 
O'er  whom  had  lowered  the  thunderclouds  of  fate ; 

He  dared  a  cruel  chivalry  to  face, 
When  madness  spawned  and  bred  satanic  hate, 

That  stalked  across  our  land  with  Moloch's  pace. 
He  gave,  as  Cato  had,  a  senate  laws 
But,  Csesarlike,  forgave  a  prostrate  cause. 

XXXI 

The  other  is  our  gentle  poet's  grave. 

It  glows  beneath  the  warmth  of  daybreak's  smile, 
When  Morning  wakes  the  sleeping  wood  and  wave ; 

And  Evening  holds  it  in  her  arms  awhile, 
As  if  she  would  her  benediction  save, 

For  him  whose  life  had  ne'er  one  taint  of  guile. 
He  sleeps  death's  sleep  within  the  Indian  mound, 
And  Hiawatha's  spirit  guards  the  ground. 

XXXII 

With  what  a  tenderness  we  laid  him  there ! 

And  what  a  majesty  enthroned  his  face  ! 
And  what  a  stillness  weighed  upon  the  air  ! 

The  heavens  were  hung  in  black  without  a  trace 
Of  lustre !     Earth,  sky,  heads,  hearts,  hopes  were  bare  ; 
And  none  save  those  had  borne  the  shield  of  care, 
Achates  and  Patroclus  and  the  Seer 
And  Eloquence  and  Song  stood  round  his  bier. 

104 


ALC^US 

XXXIII 

That  silken  chain  that  binds  him  is  but  death. 

And  death  is  life  within  another  sphere. 
There 's  naught  can  chain  the  spirit,  chain  the  breath 

That  breathed  upon  the  air  these  songs  we  hear. 
The  music  of  his  lyre  shall  outlive  death, 

Outlive  the  sigh,  the  sob,  the  blinding  tear. 
Hark !    Hark !     These  songs  we  hear  !     These  songs  that 

thrill ! 
Our  souls  shall  tremble  to  their  music  still. 


105 


A   RETROSPECT 


A  RETROSPECT 

ALONG  the  shores  of  Plymouth  I  wandered  all  alone 
And  listened  to  the  music  of  ocean's  monotone ; 

The  waves,  like  stallions,  dashing  against  the  frozen  shore, 
Their  icy  frontlets  shaking,  recalled  the  days  of  yore  ; 

Recalled  the  tired  Pilgrims,  the  pale-faced  and  the  strong, 
Who  left  their  happy  valleys  because  they  hated  wrong, 

To  find  some  pious  refuge,  a  wilderness  may  be, 
Across  a  thousand,  thousand  miles  of  rough  and  unknown 
sea. 

For  could  they  not  love  freedom  ?    Not  love  sweet  free 
dom's  God  ? 
Not  scorn  a  royal  menace  ?    Not  scorn  a  papal  nod  ? 

Could  Christians  not  face  famine  ?  face  bleak  and  sunless 

days? 
Face  ocean's  blinding  tempests,  when  led  by  heaven-born 

rays? 

I  saw  the  Pilgrims  landing.     How  gaunt  they  were,  how 

worn ! 

I  saw  those  weary  women.    How  sad  they  were  and  torn  ! 

106 


A   RETROSPECT 


The  parson  and  the  soldier,  companions  now  in  war, 
To  found  with  sword  and  Bible  a  nation  ruled  by  law. 

Now  years,  aye,  decades  twenty,  stand  marshaled,  rank  on 

rank, 
And  line  in  hoary  column  Time's  ever-changing  bank ; 

Now  towns  and  towering  cities,  now  temples  raise  their 

heads, 
And  children  hail  their  mother  across  the  ocean-threads  ! 

These  shores  that  then  were  deserts  they  throng  with  busy 

men, 
The  eager  voice  of  labor  now  echoes  through  the  glen ; 

The  prairie  and  the  forest,  —  that  then  the  savage  trod,  — 
Now  ring  with  glad  hosannas  and  praise  the  Pilgrims' 
God. 


107 


RIPENED   FRUIT 


RIPENED  FRUIT 

HERE  comes  my  Love,  my  Genevieve, 
My  fair,  my  faithful  Genevieve ! 
And  as  she  comes  the  new  moon  crowns 
Yon  clouds  that  veil  the  eve. 

My  Love  comes  up  the  garden  walk. 

Is  there  a  sylph  can  match  her  mien  ? 
She  sings,  as  oft  she  does,  some  song, 

A  vesper  hymn,  I  ween. 

Yes,  't  is  that  song  the  sisters  sing, 
The  nuns  whose  life  a  rapture  seems, 

As  Nature  shuts  the  eye  of  day 
And  soothes  to  heavenly  dreams. 

It  falls  on  my  delighted  sense 
As  falls  the  music  of  some  lyre 

Upon  the  fainting,  dying  ear 
That  hears  the  spirit  choir. 

My  worldly  fancies  flee  away  ; 

There  stands  before  my  dreaming  eye 
The  phantom  form  of  her  who  heard 

My  childhood's  earliest  cry. 
108 


RIPENED   FRUIT 


A  smile,  a  holy  smile  she  has ; 

Her  eyes,  her  spirit  eyes  are  wide 
And  turned  with  sweet  benignity 

To  mv  affianced  bride. 


109 


THE  INDIAN  STATUE  ON  LAKE  GEORGE 


THE  INDIAN  STATUE  ON  LAKE  GEORGE 

SPEAK,  lips  of  bronze ! 
Tell  us  the  words 
You  long  to  utter 
And  almost  mutter. 
Speak,  dumb  ghost ! 
"  Union  is  strength." 

Where,  savage  sage, 

Soldier  untaught, 

Learned  you  this  thought  ? 
How  in  these  glades, 
Could  your  hot  blades 

Leap  forth  untaught  ? 
"Union  is  strength." 

English  and  French 

Met  Death's  embrace, 

Death's  stony  face, 
Here  in  this  trench, 

Bastioned  by  solitude ; 

Two  streams  of  blood 

Joined  in  one  flood. 
"  Union  is  strength." 
110 


THE   INDIAN   STATUE    ON   LAKE    GEORGE 

Saxon  and  Celt 

Broke  lances  here, 

No  qualm  of  fear, 
No  dread  they  felt ! 

The  sovereignty 

Of  a  hemisphere 

Was  settled  here. 
"  Union  is  strength." 


Ill 


TRUTH 


TRUTH 

WERE  Truth  a  wild  gazelle 
Bounding  o'er  hill  and  dell, 
And  could  I  snare,  the  springe  I  'd  tear, 
And  once  again  embrace 
The  pleasure  of  the  chase ! 


112 


LOVE   AND   FRIENDSHIP 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP 

TRUE  Love  and  Friendship  met  one  morn 
When  both  were  young  and  cares  were  few, 
And  Pleasure  filled  her  golden  horn, 
And  Nature  wore  her  loveliest  hue. 

The  Day  sang  on  as  speeds  the  lay, 

And  Laughter  filled  the  woods  with  glee ; 

These  dryads  chased  the  sunshine's  ray, 
Played  hide  and  seek  round  rock  and  tree. 

But  when,  from  her  soft  pinions,  Night 
The  drowsy  dews  of  darkness  showered, 

Then  Friendship  slept,  the  thoughtless  wight ! 
While  Love  her  bed  with  violets  flowered. 


113 


THE   FOUNTAIN 


THE  FOUNTAIN 

WITHIN  a  dusty  city 
A  fountain  may  be  seen ; 
Three  little  sisters  gave  it, 
That  font  of  dancing  sheen. 

Upon  its  base  a  legend 

Their  generous  impulse  tells ; 

How  love,  like  sparkling  nectar, 
From  childish  heartstrings  wells ! 

Ere  morning  gilds  the  steeples, 
Ere  commerce  crowds  the  square, 

The  farmer  with  the  bounties 
Kind  Nature  yields  is  there. 

What  lusty  peals  of  laughter, 
What  rustic  shouts  resound ! 

See  how  the  panting  horses 

Drink  deep,  and  paw  the  ground ! 

And  when  the  noonday  burns  us 

We  see  the  lolling  hound ; 
Then  come  the  merry  children 

And  splash  its  gems  around ; 
114 


THE   FOUNTAIN 


'T  is  evening  brings  the  minstrel, 
The  jolly  beggar-throng ; 

But  they,  too,  shower  their  praises 
And  bless  the  gift  in  song. 


115 


A   DISTANT  VIEW  OF  MT.   DESERT 


A  DISTANT  VIEW  OF  MT.  DESERT 

YE  castled  crags  that  crown  the  coast  of  Maine ; 
Ye  giant  cliffs  whose  feet  the  billows  lave ; 
Ye  caverns  echoing  the  sea's  refrain ; 

The  eagle's  eyrie  and  the  smuggler's  cave 
Were  all  the  homes  your  wastes  would  once  allow. 

Your  domes  and  pinnacles  gleam  like  some  gem 

Upon  the  swelling  bosom  of  the  sea ; 
Your  forehead  wears  a  glittering  diadem. 

Is  this  some  new  Atlantis  that  we  see  ? 
Some  new  Gibraltar,  greeting  Neptune's  bow  ? 

Here  sleeps  the  avalanche !    Here  raging  brooks 
Leap  down  the  gorge  and  dance  along  the  dell ; 

Here  ghostly  shadows  haunt  shy,  sylvan  nooks ; 
And  fancy's  fauns  and  wood-nymphs  dwell ; 

All  Nature  wears  the  livery  of  Eden. 

Ye  cowled  monks  who  rear  your  cloud-girt  heads, 
Serene,  sublime,  from  out  a  glassy  sea ; 

Ye  monsters  whose  grim  sides  are  watersheds 

Down  which  the  torrent  bounds  with  unbridled  glee 

As  stallions  will  who  seek  their  wonted  haven ; 

116 


A  DISTANT  VIEW  OF  MT.   DESERT 

When  in  your  presence  how  the  soul  expands 
In  adoration  of  the  Almighty  Cause  ! 

Thought  soars  on  fairy  wings  to  those  far  lands, 
Majestic  globes  that  circle  to  the  laws 

Have  held  the  spheres  in  leash  eternal  years. 

As  we  approach,  the  village  can  be  seen, 
Though  dimly  seen,  amid  the  mists  of  morn. 

There 's  now  a  cottage  peers  from  out  the  green ; 
This  is  the  cote  where  happiness  was  born, 

The  home  that  fond  remembrance  so  endears. 


117 


A   THRENODY 


A  THRENODY 

(Written  on  revisiting  the  home  of  George  W.  Phillips) 

HOW  oft  my  pious  feet  have  trod 
This  sea-girt  intervale  and  velvet  sod, 
As  level  as  was  Cana's  threshing  floor ! 
How  oft  I  've  seen  about  this  door 
These  sheep  that  lie  like  snowdrifts  on  the  lawn ; 
Have  seen  these  elms  that  herald  now  the  dawn ; 
This  brook  that  sings  along  the  mead 
And  sets  its  flag  on  every  reed ! 
Ah,  then,  how  proud  was  I  to  grasp  that  hand 
Which  had  no  fellow  in  the  land, 
And  sit  beside  this  friendly  fire 
And  hear  that  voice  that  matched  the  lyre ! 

When  last  my  feet  passed  yonder  gate 
I  came  to  mourn  the  wrath  of  fate. 
So  he,  who  held  a  state  in  awe 
While  fulminating  freedom's  law 
And  gathering  myriads  round  his  knee 
To  teach  for  love  the  vedas  of  the  free ; 
And  lead  from  darkness  Afric's  slave, 
And  stand  triumphant  on  Secession's  grave ; 
118 


A   THRENODY 


Yes,  he  was  here,  his  heart  in  tears ; 
Bereft  of  one,  for  threescore  years, 
Had  stayed  his  hand  as  Aaron  had  of  old, 
The  hand  that  guided  Israel's  fold. 

Alas,  the  stranger  stalks  these  fields ; 

No  longer  friendship  incense  yields  ! 

Now  urchins  play  beneath  this  shade 

Where  schemes  to  break  those  chains  were  laid ; 

And  Sacrilege  sits,  raven-like,  on  high, 

And  from  the  gable  mocks  the  passer-by ; 

While  Desecration  tears  that  altar  down 

Which  freedom's  lovers  covered  with  a  crown. 

O  Time !  What  changes  have  you  wrought! 

Your  vandal  hand  !  You  laid  Palmyra  low ; 

You  sowed  the  tares  that  round  old  Carthage  grow ; 

You  fed  with  leprosy  proud  Rome's  long  walls ; 

Before  your  sledge  the  Colosseum  falls ; 

Alhambra's  turrets  kiss  the  sod ; 

Tall  Pisa  trembles  at  your  nod ; 

Assyria's  palace  lies  like  summer  dust ; 

E'en  Cheops  wastes  beneath  your  rust ; 

Hear  great  Niagara's  thundering  roar ! 

It  shakes  earth's  bastions,  gnaws  her  shore. 

All  empires  fade  like  mist  away ; 

The  firmament  bows  to  your  sway. 

When  Time  has  writ  his  impress  here, 
Is  it  strange  that  man  survives  his  year? 
119 


A   THRENODY 


Alas,  when  Death's  hard  hand  we  feel, 

Aye,  feel  that  blow  no  art  can  heal, 

Who,  who  is  there  will  mourn  our  lot  ? 

Our  very  names  will  be  forgot ! 

He  who  built  the  Ephesian  dome  ?  Forgot ! 

We  who  framed  Cologne's  great  fane  ?  Forgot. 


120 


THE   GOLDEN   DAY 


THE  GOLDEN  DAY 

ONE  day  among  these  changing  years 
Glows  with  a  golden  light, 
Among  the  smiles,  the  smiles  and  tears, 
The  sunshine  and  the  night. 

It  was  .in  April,  't  was  the  spring 

Of  life  and  hope  and  love ! 
And  she  who  taught  these  lips  to  sing 

And  taught  these  feet  to  rove 

Through  Concord  meadows  roved  with  me; 

That  Mecca  of  the  mind 
Where  first  our  banner  of  the  free 

"Was  given  to  the  wind. 

Our  steps  were  like  the  steps  of  light ; 

We  were  like  lambs  at  play ; 
We  laughed  and  sang  from  morn  to  night ; 

Oh  !  't  was  a  happy  day ! 

We  raced  across  the  flowering  lea 

To  pick  the  violet ; 
We  strayed  by  Walden's  mimic  sea 

With  gems  of  emerald  set. 
121 


THE  GOLDEN  DAY 


We  floated  down  the  silver  stream 

Towards  the  silver  sea ; 
How  gorgeous  all  the  world  did  seem  ! 

It  glowed  with  hope  and  glee ! 

We  trod  the  famous  battle-field 

Where  fought  the  minutemen ; 
Where  farmers  smote  great  England's  shield, 

And  died  to  live  again. 

How  pride,  how  pride,  our  bosoms  thrill ! 

0  how  we  bless  the  brave 
And  wish,  when  death  strikes,  we  might  fill 

A  martyr's  holy  grave. 

We  see  the  home  where  Fancy  dwelt ; 

We  kiss  the  very  earth 
Where  Transcendentalism  felt 

The  travail  of  its  birth. 

Our  heads,  our  hopes,  swim  round  in  dreams 

Of  fame  and  fair  renown ; 
What 's  this  before  our  vision  gleams  ? 

Is  this  a  laurel  crown  ? 

'T  was  here  I  wove  of  violets 

A  garland  for  my  love ; 
T  was  sweeter  than  a  coronet, 

More  like  the  crowns  above  ! 
122 


THE  GOLDEN  DAY 


'T  was  here  I  kissed  her  ruddy  lips, 
That  first  fond  kiss  of  love ; 

The  bee  that  June's  first  honey  sips 
Ne'er  touched  such  treasure-trove 


123 


WOLLSTOXECRAFT 


rflHAT  agony  of  love  !  It  made  your  life 

J-   Romance.    It  threw  a  halo  round  your  name, 

And  made  a  wandering  waif  a  child  of  Fame ; 
The  scorn,  alas,  of  every  wedded  wife ! 

That  fire  of  love,  that  lighted  up  your  face 

And  warmed  your  heart  and  burned  upon  your  pen, 
Tells  us,  as  in  your  life  it  told  deaf  men, 

They  'd  turned  the  scales  of  justice  'gainst  your  race. 

You  said,  in  words  kindling  with  sympathy, 
That  woman  was  not  born  to  be  their  slave, 

Nor  live  the  peri's  dream  of  apathy ; 

But  born  the  storm  and  stress  of  life  to  brave, 

To  bask  in  sifted  sunshine  when  she  can 
But  be  the  peer,  companion,  friend,  of  man. 

Your  life  had  blossomed  as  does  every  child's ; 
No  wave,  no  ripple,  had  disturbed  its  flow 
Till  thunderous  gales  began  in  France  to  blow 

Of  civil  strife.     So  terrible  and  wild, 

They  staggered  Europe !    She  grew  pale  with  fright ! 
Gay  Paris  was  a  maelstrom.     In  her  maw 
Honor  was  swallowed  up,  Truth,  Virtue,  Law, 

Till  naught  survived  except  the  sword  of  might. 

124 


WOLLSTONECRAFT 


Who  has  not  seen  some  moth,  lured  by  the  light, 
Fly  round  its  blaze  until  its  wings  were  burnt  ? 

So  when  this  conflagration  dazed  your  sight 
The  path  the  blazing  meteor  took  you  learnt, 

Your  ardor  all  ablaze  to  see  destroyed 
Those  reeking  palaces  with  pleasure  cloyed. 

'T  was  Freedom,  struggling  in  the  serpent  coils 

That  Tyranny  was  twisting,  age  on  age  ; 

'T  was  Samson,  agonized  and  hot  with  rage, 
Bursting  asunder  Feudalism's  toils  ! 

Whole  streets,  whole  cities,  smoked  with  fire  and  blood ; 

Starved  peasants,  drunk  with  gore,  reigned  there  su 
preme  ; 

Madness  ran  riot ;  Anarchy  was  queen ; 
All  law,  all  rights,  were  drowned  in  one  dark  flood. 

While  king  and  courtier  shuddered  at  this  sight 
And  fled,  as  Egypt  fled  before  the  scourge 

Had  lashed  her  into  shame  for  Israel's  right, 
You  saw  all  thrones  upon  the  torrent's  verge 

And  sang  that  song  of  freedom  ;  so  sweet  the  strain 
All  England  turned  its  ear  to  your  refrain. 

Your  life,  thus  far,  had  been  a  summer  sea, 

Across  whose  breast  no  waves  of  passion  sweep, 
As  tranquil  as  a  village  green  when  sleep 

Has  hushed  the  voice  of  day  and  childish  glee. 

125 


WOLLSTONECRAFT 


That  peace,  that  joy,  which  books  and  dreams  bestow, 
That  calm  delight  which  contemplation  breathes, 
Those  wefts  of  fancy  meditation  weaves,  — 

These  are  the  loves  the  child  is  glad  to  know. 

Across  your  path  no  sorrow,  fear,  or  sin 

Had  cast  its  shadow,  flung  its  hideous  shape ; 

Nor  had  one  lover  tried  your  heart  to  win 
Or  from  your  bed  one  rose  or  violet  take, 

Or  touched  that  chord  of  heavenly  rhapsodies 
Which,  struck  awry,  shrieks  hellish  monodies. 

0  Love !     0  holy  Love !     Thy  mystery 
What  mystic  incantations  can  explain  ? 
What  necromancy  can  your  secret  gain  ? 

Who  can  unwind  your  skein  of  history  ? 

When  Clotho,  at  our  birth,  has  spun  the  thread, 

Which  through  the  mazes  of  futurity, 

In  childhood,  youth  or  sear  maturity, 
'Mid  all  the  dales  and  glades  and  fields  we  tread, 

'Mid  all  the  paths  have  been  cut  out  by  fate, 
Leads  on  our  feet  to  that  enchanted  place 

Where  sits  the  maid  she  's  destined  for  our  mate, 
Seraphic  glory  shining  in  her  face. 

The  joy,  the  ecstasy  !     This  is  the  dawn 
Of  life  !     No  noonday  glare  can  match  this  morn  ! 

126 


WOLLSTONECRAFT 


'T  was  ever  thus !     'T  is  thus  't  will  ever  be  ! 
'T  was  so  with  you,  fair  Mary,  when  you  met 
The  fate  by  whom  your  psalm  of  life  was  set. 

This  was  in  France,  beside  her  siren  sea. 

Love  thrilled  your  ears  with  such  sweet  melody 
As  thrilled  to  trembling  Eloisa's  ear, 
When  Abelard  —  his  voice  we  still  can  hear,  — 

Sang  his  impassioned  bursts  of  rhapsody. 

O  that  delirium  that  fills  the  soul 

That  ne'er  before  has  sipped  the  wine  of  love ! 
So  does. a  shower  fill  some  barren  knoll 

Till  this  refreshing  incense  from  above 

Has  slaked  its  thirst ;  and  its  reviving  powers 
Have  made  the  sullen  earth  blossom  with  flowers. 

And  what  a  Midas-wealth  thou  gavest  him  ! 

Hadst  thou  been  ten  times  woman  nothing  more 
Could  you  bestow.     The  jewels  that  you  wore 

You  threw,  to  gratify  each  idle  whim, 

As  pearls  are  thrown  to  swine,  down  at  his  feet. 

You  gave  your  heart's  red  rubies  willingly  ; 

You  coined  your  blood  and  gave  it  eagerly  ; 
Your  mind,  which  God  had  made  the  seat 

Where  admiration  knelt  as  at  a  shrine, 
You  spent  to  solace  his  insipid  leisure, 

Your  wit  and  wisdom  spilt  like  generous  wine ; 
You  cringed  beneath  the  lash  of  his  displeasure ; 
127 


WOLLSTONECRAFT 


Your  honor,  hope  of  heaven  surrendered  up 
To  fill  anew  his  ever  empty  cup. 

Oh,  that  the  tongue  of  man  had  power  to  tell 

The  sad,  sad  tale  of  his  ingratitude  ! 

0  tender  heart !     Your  sufferings'  plenitude 
No  heart  but  woman's  heart  can  know  full  well. 

Perhaps  above,  perhaps  before,  that  throne 
Where  every  sin  must  kneel  and  own  its  own, 
We  yet  may  know  the  woes,  the  tears,  the  worth 
Of  that  pale,  trembling  soul  who,  while  on  earth, 

Bore  up  her  staggering  load  of  scorn  alone, 
Aye,  drew  it  close,  aye,  closer  hugged  it  still 

Because  love's  tendrils  round  two  forms  had  grown ; 
Maybe,  when  Magdalen  awaits  God's  will, 

She  may,  and  may,  before  all  Christendom, 
Receive  her  due,  her  crown  of  martyrdom. 

How  well  you  bore  the  frosts  of  cold  neglect ! 
They  kill,  as  mildew  will,  by  slow  decline 
The  rose  that  droops  when  suns  forget  to  shine. 

At  first  no  lisp,  no  whisper  of  regret. 

You  bore  his  absence.     He  but  seemed  to  toy 
In  gentle  dalliance,  not  inconstant  love. 
'T  is  thus,  you  thought,  the  fond,  coquettish  dove 

Flies  off,  that  his  caressings  may  not  cloy. 

128 


WOLLSTONECRAFT 


And  when  you  chid  his  loitering  delay, 
It  was  by  fond  reminders  of  those  hours  — 

What  aftermath  can  e'er  their  loss  repay?  — 
Together  spent  in  sweet  Castilian  bowers. 

'T  is  there  the  wine  of  love  the  lover  sips 

As  Cupid  sipped  from  Psyche's  sparkling  lips ! 

"  Come  back,  my  Love !    Come  home !   Come,  drown  your 
cares 

In  that  intoxicating  cup  that 's  ever 

Full  to  the  brim,  though  you  have  drunk  till  never 
Another  drop  of  bliss,  e'en  unawares, 

"  Could  your  deep  well  of  happiness  contain. 

No,  do  not  say  that  '  Commerce  keeps  you  still ' ; 

'  You  would  but  cannot  do  your  own  sweet  will ' ; 
1  Were  Ceres  kind  you  never  would  refrain  ! ' 

"  I  hate  the  name  of  Commerce,  hate  the  ring 
Of  gold !     These  sirens  keep  my  Love  from  me  1 

Remember,  Gilbert  dear,  there  is  one  thing 
That  gold  can  never  buy.     And  oh,  pray  see 

"  These  jewels  !     We  will  hang  about  your  neck 
As  lo's  arms  the  neck  of  Jove  did  deck. 

"  This  morn  my  pillow  sighed  and  sobbed  with  tears. 

I  wakened  from  a  dream,  so  weird  and  wild ! 

I  saw,  methought,  some  goblin  steal  our  child ;  — 
Her  prattle  now  her  father  never  hears, 

129 


"  And  never  sees  her  pretty  winsome  ways. 
This  was  my  dream.     The  God  of  day 
Was  sporting  with  the  waves  upon  the  bay 

At  Havre.     We  two  were  watching  his  bright  rays, 

"  Dancing  like  water-sprites  along  the  shore. 
Our  darling  Frances,  playing  on  the  quay, 
Too  near  the  edge,  fell  off  into  the  sea. 

As  quick  as  thought  you  sprang  to  rescue  her ; 

"  I  saw  her  rise.     I  saw  you  grasp  her  gown  ; 
When,  lo,  a  woman's  hand  dragged  you  both  down ! 

"  Do  not  reproach  me,  Love  !  oh,  no !  no  !  no ! 

I  long  so  much  to  see  again  your  face 

And  there  your  hopes,  your  joys,  your  wishes  trace ; 
To  see,  again,  the  light  of  love  aglow ; 

"  To  gaze  into  your  eyes,  those  hazel  eyes ; 
See  Cupid  paint  again  Love's  dawning  blush 
Until  that  holy  light  your  whole  face  flush ; 

To  hear  you  say  how  dearly  you  still  prize, — 

"  And  say  it,  too,  as  often  as  I  woo  !  — 

'  That  heart  that  beats  in  rhyme  to  my  own  heart, 

Chanting  my  name  and  then  my  sweetheart's  too ' ; 
And  hear  you  say :  '  We  ne'er,  no  ne'er,  shall  part ' ; 

" '  Come,  come,  my  Love,  and  lean  upon  this  arm  ; 
This  arm  shall  be  your  buckler  against  harm.' 

130 


WOLLSTONECRAFT 


"Ah,  me !     The  snows  have  come  since  your  dear  eyes 
Have  shed,  like  suns,  their  light  and  life  around, 
Making  this  barren  moor  with  joy  abound, 

Scaring  the  darkness,  bidding  the  morning  rise 

"  And  fill  my  bosom  with  the  joys  of  peace. 
What !  can  my  mother,  England,  have  some  charm, 
Some  talisman,  which,  while  it  would  not  harm 

A  favorite  child,  yet  slowly  would  release 

"  Life's  sweet  enchanter  to  this  exiled  maid  ? 

My  nights  are  ages !     Oh,  I  moan  for  sleep  ! 
This  fever  will  not  yield  to  other  aid. 

My  Mother  Isle !    If  thou  must  longer  keep 

"  My  love  a  prisoner,  in  durance  vile, 
Unbar  thy  gates  for  just  a  little  while  ! 

"  I  am  an  alien  from  your  fireside. 
Your  pride,  dear  England,  will  not  me  forgive, 
Nor  let  me  with  your  wedded  children  live 

Till  she  who  loved  too  well  becomes  a  bride. 

"  My  Mother  !     Tears,  hot  tears  shall  wash  your  feet ; 
My  grief  shall  bare  my  trembling,  shuddering  soul,  — 
What  surging  seas  of  anguish  o'er  it  roll !  — 

For  one  sweet  smile  —  that  smile  I  used  to  meet, 

"  When,  free  as  air,  light-hearted  as  the  roe, 

I  was  a  guest  in  cottage  and  in  hall, 
Where  senates  thunder  and  where  courtiers  glow, 

And  always  shed  a  kindly  light  o'er  all. 

131 


WOLLST  ONECRAFT 


"  Nor  can  I  quite  e'en  now  these  thorns  regret,  — 
Not  love,  't  was  cold  respect  Diana  met !  — 

"  O  this  huge  weight  of  woe  that  drags  me  down  ! 

My  life  is  wrecked  1     My  peace,  my  pride's  undone ! 

The  gamins  in  the  street  run  from  me  now  ; 
One  rake,  has  wrecked  a  score,  now  dares  to  frown  ; 

"  And,  cruelest  of  blows !  the  cause  of  all 

Has  turned  his  back  on  me.     l  She  was  not  wise,' 
He  says ;  and  spurns  a  richer  prize 

Than  that  false,  painted  jade  who  caused  Troy's  fall. 

"  The  vale  of  tears,  this,  this  must  be  my  share ! 

And  now  I  must  that  scarlet  letter  wear, 
And  stagger  on  with  my  great  cross  of  care, 

And  see  on  every  side  Philistines  stare, 

"  And  say  this  bawd  should  stand  within  the  stocks, 
This  scarlet  woman  should  have  bars  and  locks. 

"  How  long,  my  God,  must  I  this  life  endure  ? 
When  Tarquin  robbed  Lucretia  of  her  crown 
She  quickly  threw  life's  shattered  scepter  down. 

But  death,  will  it  nepenthe's  balm  secure  ? 

"  Thou  murky  Seine !     Thy  cold,  thy  hungry  wave 
How  many  a  heart  has  hugged  to  save 
Ages  of  woe  !     A  coward  fears  to  brave 
The  dark  oblivion  of  a  watery  grave. 

132 


WOLLSTONECRAFT 


"  If  thy  Lethean  tide  should  choke  my  breath 
And  draw  its  dusky  veil  across  my  eyes, 

If  hope's  delusive  dream  should  fade  in  death, 
Would  then  my  soul  on  spirit  pinions  rise  ? 

"Ah,  let  no  passing,  pitying  stranger  pause ; 
For  nature  has  but  bowed  to  nature's  laws  ! 

"  Dear  Saviour  !  must  I  drain  the  hemlock's  lees 
And  miss  that  pearl  for  which  I  gave  my  life, 
That  priceless  guerdon  —  to  be  called  his  wife  ? 

Oh,  must  my  soul  in  Hades  starve  and  freeze  ? 

"  Stay  !     Palsy  strike  me  dumb  ere  one  harsh  word 
Escape  my  lips !     They  've  trembled  to  the  kiss 
Of  one  who  wandered  from  excess  of  bliss, 

And  ne'er  the  burial  chant  of  love  has  heard  ! 

"  Dear  Father !  I  would  beg,  if  not  impiety, 
Beg  on  my  knees  that  those  engulfing  seas 

My  revery  sees  be  not  reality. 

0  temper  Thou  that  fierce  Atlantic  breeze  ; 

"  And  let  those  shipwrecked  toilers  of  the  sea 
Regain  some  friendly  shore  from  danger  free ! " 

Brave  Mary  Wollstonecraft !     Your  name  survives 
The  ruin  Time  has  wrought  of  prouder  fame. 
Their  phantom  fanes  and  phantom  castles  wane, 

Those  spectral  walls  and  domes  they  in  their  lives 

133 


WOLLSTONECRAFT 


Emblazoned  o'er  with  famous  victories 
Of  deeds  or  eloquence  of  tongue  or  pen, 
Where  Senates  listened  or  where  Justice's  ken 

Sat  in  her  majesty  of  centuries. 

Their  voice  of  thunder  does  not  so  resound 

In  Fame's  fair  temple,  where  proud  Glory  dwells, 

As  does  that  trembling  voice  of  anguish  found 
Imprisoned  in  your  heart's  Tartarean  cells. 

Affection !     Here 's  the  chord  which,  struck  aright, 
Makes  life's  long  fray  a  rapture  of  delight ! 

But,  yet,  if  later  joys  could  e'er  atone 
For  agonies  that  made  a  woman's  life 
A  maelstrom,  in  whose  maw  an  unwed  wife 

Saw  agonies  of  love  go  down  ;  aye,  saw  that  throne 

From  childhood  she  had  hoped  to  reign  upon1 
Lie  all  a  mocking  ruin  at  her  feet, 
Perhaps  those  days,  so  few,  so  calm,  so  sweet, 

Where  Peace  and  wedded  Love  and  Wisdom  shone, 

And  where  your  shallop  sailed  upon  life's  sea 
As  sails  the  nautilus,  'mid  Indian  airs, 

On  ocean's  mirror  when  the  breeze  blows  free, 
Were  some  sweet  solace  for  your  woes  and  cares. 

Oh  would  you  know,  when  you  gave  life  for  life, 
Your  sad,  last  tears  would  christen  Shelley's  wife ! 


134 


AT   ANCHOR 


AT  ANCHOR 

OUR  sloop  is  at  last  in  the  bay ! 
The  gale  that  has  harrowed  the  waves 
And  deluged  our  deck  with  their  spray 
Has  returned  to  its  home  in  the  caves. 

Let  us  rest,  while  the  gale  takes  its  rest ! 

It  has  made  a  long  night  of  the  day, 
And  has  made  of  that  night  one  long  quest, 

But  our  woes  with  the  clouds  roll  away. 


135 


AURI   SACRA   FAMES 


AURI  SACRA  FAMES 

BEFORE  thy  shrine  I  kneel,  conquered  at  last ! 
All  other  dreams  are  o'er.    I  worship  thee ! 
Thou  art  the  jewel  that  will  buy  me  peace, 
And  smooth  life's  whirlpool  to  an  inland  sea. 
On  wings  of  gold  thy  worshippers  can  fly 

To  Indian  climes,  can  tempt  the  isles  of  Greece 
Can  haunt  Circassian  vales  where  Luxury 
Feeds  on  ambrosia  'neath  that  purple  sky. 

The  Nymphs  and  Graces  follow  at  your  heels ; 
The  Muses  dance  to  your  melodious  strain ; 

'T  is  Bacchus  sips  your  cup  until  he  reels 
Or  trips  with  Love  in  Midas'  gorgeous  train ! 
You  are  the  key  unlocks  the  hermit's  cave  ; 

You  raise  the  feeble,  paint  Care's  pallid  cheek 

With  damask  hues,  support  the  steps  of  Age 
And  strew  with  joys  the  pathway  to  the  grave. 


136 


AN   ASCENSION   ODE 


AN  ASCENSION  ODE 

HAIL,  Holy  Morn, 
Ascension's  glorious  morn ! 
All  hail,  Immortal  Day  ! 
Hail,  hail,  thou  faintest  blush  of  dawn ! 

Millions  salute  thy  ray. 
To-day  our  Saviour  rose, 
Cast  off  his  earth-stained  clothes, 
His  cerements  of  clay. 

He  rose  as  a  snow-white  dove 
Mounts  on  the  wings  of  love, 
Away,  away,  above ; 
Away  from  these  haunts  of  men, 
Away  from  the  eye-sight's  ken, 
Away  from  these  dens  of  earth, 
This  womb  of  his  death  and  birth. 

At  first  a  fleecy  cloud, 
An  angel's  spirit  shroud, 
He  rises  through  the  air, 
No  eye  has  yet  seen  where ; 
And  then,  a  glow  of  light, 
He  fades  away  from  sight 
137 


Beyond  that  veil  of  blue 

No  mortal  has  peered  through, 

That  veil  of  ethereal  hue 

No  spirit  has  peered  through  ; 

He  floats  in  atmosphere 

Sidereal  atmosphere, 

Beyond  our  hemisphere, 

In  realms  where  the  planets  sweep 

Across  the  celestial  deep. 

When  fades  that  glow  of  light 
And  all  is  closed  from  sight 
We  grope  in  darkest  night. 

But  Faith,  our  Faith  believes 
This  Light  our  sins  relieves, 
This  Christ  our  sins  forgives, 
Those  sins  the  Fiend  conceives 
Will  cleanse  from  the  stains  of  Earth. 
Faith  and  Faith  only  sees  his  worth, 
Faith  knows  his  heavenly  birth, 
That  he  came  through  infinite  space 
And  loves  with  infinite  grace. 


138 


THE  ANVIL  AND  THE  BROOK 


THE  ANVIL  AND  THE  BROOK 

HEAR  Labor's  deep-toned  undertow ! 
A  dozen,  dozen  miles  away 
From  where  Neponset's  lazy  flow 
Is  lost  to  sight  in  Boston  bay. 
The  roar,  the  clash,  the  clang  and  ring 

Of  thundering  hammers  strike  the  ear, 
Here  anvils  their  loud  chorus  sing, 
And  Labor's  lusty  chant  we  hear. 

Chorus 

A-ding-a-ding,  a  ding-a-ding, 
'  T  is  thus  the  merry  anvils  sing ; 
A-ding-a-ding,  a-ding-a-dong, 
'  T  is  thus  the  anvils  sing  along ; 
And,  as  their  mighty  cadence  rings, 
In  harmony  each  blacksmith  sings — 
A-ding-a-ding,  a  ding-a-dong  — 
Come  join  our  chorus,  sing  our  song. 

So  Vulcan,  with  his  giant  will, 
Did  weld  the  thunderbolts  of  Jove, 

Pandora  fashion  by  his  skill, 

With  JStna  for  his  treasure-trove. 
139 


THE  ANVIL  AND  THE  BROOK 

But  mark  the  Vulcans  of  our  age  ! 

The  mountains  bow  before  their  skill, 
For  they  have  tamed  Sierra's  rage 

And  bent  the  Rockies  to  their  will 

Chorus 

The  stream  that  danced  adown  the  hill, 

And  danced,  untamed,  along  the  dell, 
Now  trips  to  merrier  music  still 

And  sings  its  song  with  grander  swell ; 
Obeisance  to  its  master  makes 

Whene'er  its  current  bends  the  beam, 
And  says  with  every  bow  it  makes 

It  is  not  now  an  idle  stream. 

Chorus 

"  Now  as  it  glides  along  my  shore, 

The  furnace  glows  upon  my  breast ; 
I  see  the  many  tons  of  ore 

That  lie  there  waiting  my  behest ; 
I  laugh  at  all  the  wealth  bestowed, 

The  magic  fashioned  by  my  aid, 
I  moan  for  all  the  years  I  flowed,     . 

A  mirror  for  the  sun  and  shade." 

Chorus 


140 


ALFREDA 


ALFREDA 

village  had  sunk  into  sleep ; 
The  churchyard  was  dreary  and  dark ; 
The  form  of  a  maid,  and  a  newly  made  grave ; 
That  was  all.     But  it  made  my  flesh  creep. 

"  Forgive  me,  forgive  me,  dear  mother, 
For  I  have  forgiven  your  shame ; 

But  hear,  hear  my  sighs  and  my  anguish, 
And  tell  me  my  own  father's  name  !  " 

The  sod  did  not  hear,  did  not  answer, 
The  mother  had  turned  into  dust, 

But  her  spirit,  on  spirit-wings  speeding, 
Had  flown  to  the  realms  of  the  just. 

By  her  lover  disowned  and  forsaken, 
She  had  carried  her  burden  of  sadness, 

Had  been  chased  by  the  fiend  of  remorse 
Till  she  sank  at  the  cross  in  sheer  madness. 


141 


BIRTHDAY  ODE 


BIRTHDAY  ODE 

(Written  to  celebrate  the  day  when  Maiden  became  a  city) 

HAIL,  City  of  the  Mystic ! 
This  is  thy  natal  day, 
And  thy  elder  sisters  greet  thee, 
Thou  rosy,  dimpled  fay. 
Around  thy  cradle  meeting 
We  give  thee  joyous  greeting, 
The  circling  dance  together  wing, 
A  paean  of  rejoicing  sing, 
And  celebrate  thy  jubilee. 

Now  gleams  another  gem 

Around  the  diadem 

That  crowns  thy  queenly  mother's  brow. 

By  royal  sire  begot, 

In  infancy  forgot, 

Her  father  once  in  childhood  thought 

And  once  in  her  full  maidenhood 

To  choke  her  struggling  life. 

Behold  our  mother's  womanhood ! 

She  walks  among  her  sister  States 

In  crimson  robes  of  majesty. 

The  glories  of  her  past 

Have  stamped  their  impress  on  her  brow. 


BIRTHDAY   ODE 


The  light  of  hope  illumes  her  eye, 

'T  is  fixed  upon  futurity. 

Her  fame  is  like  the  rising  sun, 

Our  Commonwealth  her  sisters  crown, 

The  queen  of  learning  and  of  song. 


143 


MT.   DESERT 


MT.  DESERT 

rilHERE  is  an  island  off  the  coast  of  Maine, 
J-   A  lovely  isle.     It  borders  on  the  path 
The  white-winged  gulls  of  commerce  scour  for  gain. 

A  desert  isle  !  The  fisher's  lonely  hearth 
Is  all  stern  Nature's  will  allows. 

Her  face  is  granite,  but  her  eyes  a  gem 
That  sparkles  on  the  bosom  of  the  sea, 

And  lures  within  its  rays  those  weary  men 
Whom  Care  pursues,  who  long  to  be  set  free 

From  toil  and  roam  where'er  the  south  wind  soughs. 

Here  are  tall  cliffs,  deep  bays,  and  babbling  brooks ; 

Here,  smiling  fields  and  velvet  vales  and  laughing  dells ; 
Here  God  has  set  lone  lakes  and  lonelier  nooks 
Where  Fancy  with  the  dancing  dryads  dwells, 

And  dressed  rough  Nature  in  the  garb  of  Eden. 
Ye  druid  shapes  who  raise  your  cowled  heads  I 
Ye  grisly,  giant  crags  !    Ye  water-sheds 

That  foaming  coursers,  fierce  and  wild  and  free, 
Bound  down,  to  find  afar  some  greener  haven ! 

When  'neath  your  spell,  oh,  how  the  soul  expands 
In  meek  obeisance  to  the  Almighty  Cause ! 

Thought  soars  on  spirit  wings  to  Spirit  lands, 
Ethereal  spheres  in  leash  to  phantom  laws 

144 


MT.    DESERT 


That  guide  the  plummet  and  that  chain  the  globe. 

From  this  bald  peak  the  village  can  be  seen.  — 
'T  is  golden  in  the  vapors  of  the  morn  !  — 

That  cottage,  too,  behind  yon  veil  of  green, 
Dear  nest  in  paradise  where  Love  was  born 

And  Peace  and  Sweet  Contentment  had  their  birth. 


145 


WEDDING   BELLS 


WEDDING  BELLS 

LIGHTLY  and  merrily, 
Blithely  and  cheerily, 
Shouted  the  wedding  bells, 
Shouted  and  sang  with  joy 
When  Annie  was  wed. 

Softly  and  peacefully, 
Calmly  and  cheerfully, 
Shone  forth  the  queen  of  night, 
Showering  her  pearls  of  light, 
Showering  her  blessings  bright, 
On  Annie's  fair  head. 


146 


NIL   DESPERANDUM 


HOW  vast  is  the  realm  of  the  ocean  ; 
'T  is  a  boundless,  a  fathomless  main  ! 
To-day  't  is  a  whirlpool  of  motion, 
To-morrow  a  mirror  again. 

A  drop,  only  one,  was  drunk  up ; 

And  't  was  crystallized  into  a  pearl. 
And  a  queen  set  it  high  in  a  diadem  crown 

As  the  gem  of  that  wonderful  whorl. 

Here,  here  is  the  tale  of  a  lifetime ; 

For  't  is  drops  make  the  ocean  of  time  ! 
Why,  the  hills  with  their  snows  and  their  frost-rime 

Were  once  like  the  dew  on  the  thyme. 


147 


THE  GRAVE  OF  EMERSON 


THE  GRAVE  OF  EMERSON 

IN  Sleepy  Hollow  'neath  these  pines 
That  chant  to-day  their  sobs  and  sighs, 
Here,  where  this  purple  laurel  twines, 
The  sage  of  Concord  lies. 

Two  forest  monarchs,  sentinels, 

Is  all  we  eager  travelers  find ; 
And  on  his  grave  these  immortelles 

Suggest  his  living  mind. 

No  hedge !    No  name !    No  mark  1    No  stone ! 

But  why  this  grave  with  hedges  bound  ? 
The  lover  from  whatever  zone 

Will  find  his  sweetheart's  mound. 

Thou,  Nature,  thou  wilt  guard  this  grave 
As  thou  hast  guarded  that  so  long ; 

They  were  thy  lovers,  true  and  brave, 
Romance  and  Delphic  song. 


148 


HOME   AND   COUNTRY 


HOME  AND  COUNTRY 

WHAT  man  has  no  affection 
For  country  or  for  home 
But  follows  the  direction 

In  which  his  fancies  roam  ? 
Who,  plowing  India's  ocean 

Or  scanning  Moscow's  dome, 
Ascending  Chimborazo 

Or  loitering  in  Rome, 
Has  ne'er  a  twinge  of  sadness 

Has  ne'er  a  thought  of  home  ? 

Who,  floating  down  the  Danube 
Or  cresting  Baltic's  foam 

Is  never  filled  with  gladness, 

A  gladness  kin  to  madness, 
When  our  dear  flag  is  seen 

With  other  nations  vying, 
That  shield  of  scarlet  sheen  ? 

A  man  without  a  nation, 

Like  Ishmael  of  old, 
With  no  place  in  creation 

That  binds  with  bands  of  gold,- 
149 


HOME   AND   COUNTRY 


To  him  what  place  is  sacred  ? 
What  love  has  he  or  hatred  ? 
What  sin  would  make  him  falter  ? 

What  is  there  that  he  fears  ? 
He  would  despoil  an  altar, 

Rob  a  vestal  in  her  tears ! 


150 


MY  MAIMED  HEIFER 

AH,  she  was  beautiful ! 
An  unantlered  deer, 
And  of  all  kine  the  peer ! 
The  soul  of  lo  glistened 
In  those  trustful  eyes. 

Her  birth,  her  form,  her  grace 
Bespoke  an  ancient  race, 
Fit  mate  for  Jove 
When  he  assumed  her  mien 
And  took  Europa  on  his  back 
And  swam  the  Cretan  sheen. 

An  accident,  alack ! 
Has  stolen  beauty's  trace 
And  spoiled  her  of  her  grace. 
And  now  she  's  like  a  maiden, 
With  a  scar  upon  her  face. 


151 


MIRAMAR 


MIRAMAR 

I  HEAR  the  loud  laugh  of  the  sea-gull, 
And  I  note  the  sly  scorn  of  his  taunt, 
As  he  rises  above  the  hot  sand-bar 
And  sails  to  his  island  haunt. 

And  I  wish  that  I  were  a  sea-gull, 

And  could  fly  from  this  sun  and  this  sand, 

And  find,  too,  some  island  refuge 
Where  the  Ice-King  is  lord  of  the  land. 


152 


OPPORTUNITY 


OPPORTUNITY 

HEAR  how  the  cascade  is  grumbling ! 
Down,  down  the  deep  gorge  it  is  tumbling ; 
How  it  dashes  and  splashes  ! 
From  bowlder  to  bowlder  't  is  leaping ; 
From  shoulder  to  shoulder  't  is  sweeping ; 
How  it  flashes  and  crashes ! 

Stay  the  swift  stride  of  its  gladness, 
Chain  this  tornado  of  madness, 

'T  were  to  lasso  the  wind  ! 
But  down  in  yon  dale  there  's  no  torrent ; 
There  are  children  at  play  in  its  current ; 

A  child  could  it  bind. 


153 


ALCLEUS   AND   SAPHIA 


ALOEUS  AKD  SAPHIA 

A   LCJSUS  loved  a  maid,  a  country  maid, 
-^*-  And  showed  the  maid  his  heart, 
And  thought,  poor  swain  !  that  she  his  love  repaid, 
And  they  should  never  part. 

But  mark  his  fate  !     His  Saphia  was  the  dove 

That  loves  with  other  doves  to  toy ; 
The  simple  maid  knew  not  the  worth  of  love, 

For  she  was  young  and  coy. 

Alcseus  could  not  brook  her  smiles, 

Her  thoughtless  smiles  for  other  swains  ; 

His  jealous  heart  rebelled  against  these  wiles 
And  brooded  o'er  its  pains. 

But  she  was  true ;  for  when  she  knew  the  grief 

Her  artless  coquetries  had  caused, 
She  fain,  kind  heart,  would  fly  to  his  relief; 

In  her  caprice  she  paused, 

And  tried  by  smiles,  by  tears,  by  all  she  knew, 

Ry  sweet  endearings  he  loved  most, 
To  hold  the  heart  that  once  she  drew ; 

She  only  held  its  ghost ! 
154 


ALGOUS   AND   SAPHIA 


The  bird  once  flown  may  not  return  ; 

The  swain  once  gone  may  stay  away, 
Fair  maid.     If  from  this  tale  you  do  not  learn, 

You  may  some  other  day. 


155 


A  SOUVENIR 


A  SOUVENIR 


laughing  eyes  of  blue,  - 
-*-    'T  is  twilight's  azure  hue, 
With  starlight  trembling  through  ! 
They  light  my  lonely  hours 
As  gleams  of  gorgeous  flowers 
Will  lighten  lonely  bowers. 

That  face  of  twinkling  smiles 
That  with  a  seraph's  wiles 
My  memory  beguiles  ; 
That  shape  of  dancing  light, 
I  saw  it  with  delight 
Dance  in  my  dreams  to-night  ! 

That  voice  !     'T  is  like  the  rill 
That  ripples  down  the  hill, 
Sweeter  than  linnet's  trill  ; 
Now  as  the  laughing  wind 
Sings  through  my  swinging  blind 
I  can  its  echo  find. 

Can  I  those  days  forget, 
Those  happy  days  regret 
When  dangling  in  your  net  ? 
Did  I  those  meshes  tear 
When  in  your  silken  lair, 

Sweet  Emily,  my  Fair  ? 
156 


PATRIOT   OR  TRAITOR 


PATRIOT  OR  TRAITOR 

A  TRAGEDY 

I.    LOVE 


T 


'T  is  the  loveliest  valley  in  France ! 
Here  the  slopes  of  the  river  are  vineyards, 
Here  the  sunshine  forever  beguiles ; 
Here  the  meadows  are  gorgeous  with  poppies 
And  the  skies  of  the  violet's  hue  ; 
Here  the  fields  and  the  fells  and  the  hillsides 
Are  purple  with  clustering  vines  ; 
And  the  nightingale  sings  in  the  branches ; 
And  the  river,  too,  sings  in  its  sleep ; 
Here  the  woods  are  aglow  with  the  colors 
Old  Autumn  has  spread  with  the  brush 
He  has  dipt  in  an  ocean  of  russets 
And  sprinkled  o'er  woodland  and  plain. 

Now  the  hand  of  the  rosy-cheeked  maiden 
Is  culling  the  clustering  grape ; 
And  the  hand  of  the  husbandman  pressing 
The  rubicund  rills  of  new  wine. 
'T  is  the  birth  of  the  fanciful  evening, 
And  the  hand  of  the  King  of  the  Day 
157 


PATRIOT   OR   TRAITOR 


Is  flinging  his  pearls  and  his  rubies, 

And  the  shadows  come  on  in  his  train. 

He  is  gilding  the  chateau  with  splendors 

And  is  plating  its  bastions  with  gold, 

He  is  gilding  its  windows  and  turrets 

With  the  colors  he  lends  to  the  mist. 

See  the  towers !    They  stand  there  like  sentries  ! 

See  him  skim  like  a  bird  o'er  the  lake 

And  trip  o'er  the  sheen  in  the  fosses 

With  the  shimmering  step  of  a  ghost ! 

This  chateau  was  built  by  Amboise, 

And  once  was  a  royal  demesne. 

Ere  the  days  of  our  tale  't  was  a  palace, 

A  palace  of  rural  delights. 

Here  queens  have  had  fetes  and  rare  pageants, 

And  courtiers  have  knelt  at  their  feet ; 

That  queen  whose  escutcheon  is  crimsoned 

With  the  blood  of  a  myriad  saints, 

And  that  other,  who  oft  was  a  mother 

And  was  shrived  by  the  kiss  of  two  kings, 

But  who  bore  them  no  kingly  descendant,  — 

Here  both  have  held  pageants  and  courts  ! 

But  when  kings  had  drunk  full  of  its  pleasures 
And  had  longed  for  the  wine  of  the  Louvre, 
This  chateau  they  tossed  to  some  courtier ; 
And  its  pleasance  and  ample  parterres 
No  longer  were  gorgeous  with  splendor, 
Or  rang  with  the  joust  and  the  fete  ; 
158 


No  longer  they  echoed  the  laughter 

Of  gay  cavaliers  and  gay  maids ; 

No  longer  these  danced  on  its  greensward, 

Sipped  wine  in  its  banqueting  halls 

Or  drank  of  that  wine  —  't  is  the  sweetest ! 

That  wine  of  a  passionate  love. 

Again  there 's  the  ring  of  a  revel ! 

Again  are  the  lawns  as  of  yore 

Alive  with  gay  gallants  and  maidens,  — 

A  birthday  has  come  to  the  Count. 

He  was  born  in  the  glow  of  this  grandeur ; 

The  sands  of  his  years  are  a  score ; 

He  was  rocked  in  this  cradle  of  princes, 

He  has  played  with  them  when  but  a  boy ; 

He  has  chased  the  wild  boar  through  the  forest, 

Brought  the  roe  and  the  stag  to  their  knees, 

And  hunted  with  bow  and  with  falcon ; 

He  has  cleft  a  steel  helm  with  his  axe. 

But  his  grace  and  the  ease  of  his  manner, 

These  touch  a  maid's  heart  like  a  wand  ! 

And  now,  —  't  is  the  Cardinal's  bidding,  — 
He  's  to  live  in  the  glare  of  the  court. 
Ah,  that  glare  !     'T  is  the  sun  of  the  tropics  ! 
It  will  double  the  blood  in  your  veins 
If  you  live  in  the  smiles  of  your  sovereign ; 
But  will  shrivel  the  tree  to  a  stalk 
If  this  sunshine  shall  change  into  shadow, 
And  you  dwell  in  the  gloom  of  his  frown. 
159 


PATRIOT   OR  TRAITOR 


Now  the  chateau  and  pleasance  are  singing 

With  merriment,  music,  and  mirth, 

And  now  Love  pays  its  devoirs  to  Beauty, 

And  Pleasure  is  partner  with  Youth. 

Two  forms  stand  aloof  in  the  moonlight, 

Half-hid  in  a  leafy  retreat, 

In  a  tender,  entrancing  seclusion, 

All  aloof  from  the  joys  that  abound. 

'T  is  the  trees  that  must  tell  us  their  converse  :  — 

"  I  must  leave  all  these  haunts  of  our  youth, 

This  palace  that  memory  hallows, 

These  meadows  so  perfumed  with  joy, 

Where  our  days  were  for  love  and  each  other, 

And  our  life  was  as  free  as  the  fawn's  ; 

Where  we  played  with  the  deer  on  the  woodland 

And  sailed  our  big  ships  in  its  pools  ; 

Built  castles  on  cloud-rolling  summits 

And  peopled  their  halls  with  our  dreams. 

It  was  then  that  the  knight  wooed  the  ladye, 

And  't  was  then  that  the  ladye  avowed 

That  the  power  of  heaven's  espousal 

Was  stronger  than  man's  petty  laws ; 

Said  that  Love  and  that  Faith  and  that  Honor 

Were  a  chain  that  was  stronger  than  steel. 

"  Will  the  plight  that  we  lisped  in  our  childhood, 
Will  it  die  like  the  breeze  on  the  lake 
When  it  leaves  ne'er  a  ripple  behind  it  ? 
Will  our  pinions  be  dipt  ere  we  fly  ? " 
His  accents  were  trustful  and  tender, 
160 


PATRIOT   OR   TRAITOR 


And  so  was  the  maiden's  reply  : 

"  The  lake  that  the  tempest  has  furrowed, 

It  will  ne'er  be  a  mirror  again 

Till  the  spirit  that  ruffled  the  water 

Shall  shatter  the  trident  he  holds. 

But  alas !  Ah  !  the  fate  that  enfolds  us ! 

A  princess  is  feof  of  the  crown. 

Her  hand  is  not  hers.     'T  is  her  sovereign's  ! 

For  she  never  can  wed  'gainst  her  will. 

A  daughter  of  Prudence  and  Statecraft, 

'T  is  her  suzerain  barters  her  hand. 

"  Our  Queen  !    It  is  she  is  my  giver ; 
It  is  down  at  her  feet  you  must  kneel. 
I  would  that  you  knelt  to  high  Heaven, 
And  could  plead  where  the  peasant  can  plead  ! 
But  here  't  is  the  prince  wins  the  princess, 
Though  her  hand,  not  her  heart,  is  his  prize. 
My  heart !    It  still  rings  with  your  echoes ; 
For  they  fill  all  its  chambers  and  halls." 

Were  words  ever  lover's  best  language  ? 
With  her  hand  in  his  own  he  replies. 
"  Some  raven,  some  bird  of  foreboding  — 
There  always  are  ravens  at  court  — 
Has  whispered  a  throne  is  your  suitor, 
And  has  pleaded  high  reasons  of  state ; 
And  the  Queen  says  the  ermine's  your  birthright, 
And  sanctions  and  furthers  this  suit. 
Ah,  who  can  match  swords  with  an  empress  ? 
161 


PATRIOT  OR  TRAITOR 


In  her  veins  live  a  hundred  great  kings, 
Great  kings  of  the  days  of  the  Caesars, 
And  the  Austrian  Emperor's  sway. 
Ah !  a  crown  will  outweigh  my  affection, 
As  a  nugget  outweighs  a  mere  vow. 

"  But  a  crown  has  its  burden  of  sorrows 
That  have  lowered  kings'  heads  in  the  dust. 
There  's  more  joy  in  a  vine-trellised  cottage, 
If  the  vine  has  been  nurtured  with  love, 
If  its  roots  have  been  wet  with  affection, 
And  its  tendrils  been  tended  with  care. 

"  Let  us  leave  all  this  glare  and  this  glamour ! 
Let  us  wash  folly's  stains  from  our  hands ; 
Let  us  seek,  seek  elsewhere  some  Eden 
Whose  fields  do  not  bristle  with  thorns ! 
Fame !  Fame  !  What  is  Fame !  'T  is  a  bauble 
Some  jester  has  sewn  in  his  cap ; 
Its  tinkle  attracts  to  his  folly, 
It  is  naught  but  the  jingle  of  bells. 

"  Let  us  seek,  let  us  find  some  new  country, 
Let  us  find  a  new  home  in  some  dale, 
Where  the  harp  that  God  hangs  in  the  branches 
Will  be  music  and  joy  to  our  ears. 
Let  us  find  a  new  home  in  old  England, 
A  home  by  her  many- voiced  sea ; 
Where  the  daylight  is  ringing  with  music, 
And  the  nightingale  wakens  the  night. 
162 


PATRIOT   OR  TRAITOR 


Affection  will  tune  nature's  chorus 
And  our  cup  of  delight  will  be  full." 

How  sweet  are  the  chimes  at  a  wedding  ! 

No  music  of  man  is  so  sweet ! 

Two  hearts  in  true  melody  beat 

To  the  strains  of  the  sweetest  of  raptures, 

That  music  of  home  and  true  love. 

Long,  long  did  she  sit  there  in  silence, 

And  her  face  was  beclouded  with  thought. 

But  her  eyes  to  the  eyes  of  her  lover 

Told  him  well  what  her  lips  would  have  said. 

'T  is  the  eyes  are  a  maiden's  true  tell-tale, 

For  their  language  is  truer  than  words. 

But  each  moment  the  shadows  grew  deeper, 

And  the  lines  in  her  face  grew  more  firm, 

In  the  tide  of  contending  emotions 

That  swept  through  the  depths  of  her  soul. 

At  length,  and  her  voice  was  all  pity, 

And  her  accents  were  trembling  with  love, 

Meditation  became  resolution, 

And  the  maid  took  the  helm  from  the  man. 

But  the  tears  in  her  eyes !  These  betrayed  her ! 

How  a  bell  wakes  the  night  like  a  knell ! 

"  You  know  what  my  aching  heart  answers ; 
But  my  head  has  another  response. 
For  years  you  have  burned  with  ambition 
To  take  up  the  reins  of  the  state 
163 


And  the  quadriga  drive  to  Olympus 
When  the  tottering  Cardinal  falls. 
For  years  you  have  sighed  for  the  glory 
Exalts  the  white  plume  of  Navarre. 

"  Your  teeth  you  have  ground  with  resentment 

At  the  blows  that  the  Cardinal  dealt 

With  the  sword  that  his  genius  has  sharpened, 

And  the  bolts  he  has  forged  for  the  Church, 

On  the  heads  of  our  Huguenot  people. 

It  was  murder,  you  said,  and  red  sin 

To  strangle  the  rights  of  our  barons, 

Burn  brands  on  the  backs  of  our  saints. 

"  A  child  at  the  knees  of  your  mother,  — 
There  Hannibal  learned  to  hate  Rome  !  — 
You  have  eaten  the  bread  of  contention 
And  hatred  of  priest-craft  and  crime. 
Are  the  hopes,  the  fond  hopes  of  your  childhood, 
Are  the  prayers  and  the  sighs  of  that  saint, 
Laid  her  child,  only  child,  on  the  altar 
As  Jacob  laid  his  on  the  pyre, 
Are  these  all  to  fade  out  like  the  sunshine 
That  gleams  on  the  sea  for  an  hour 
And  wanes  into  midnight  Cimmerian  ? 
This  were  choking  the  vine  ere  the  fruit ! 
This  were  strangling  the  child  in  the  cradle  ! 
It  were  smiting  the  bosom  you  nursed ! 
No  !    No !    Let  us  pause  at  this  whirlpool  — 
We  know  not  the  greed  of  its  maw  — 
164 


PATRIOT  OR  TRAITOR 


As  the  voyager  will  pause  at  the  Rhine-flood, 
And  think  ere  he  takes  the  great  plunge. 

"  But  now  let  us  back  to  the  pleasance, 
For  't  is  time  that  the  dance  was  resumed. 
But  to-night  at  the  hour  when  the  ghosts  walk 
Let  us  visit  the  ghosts  of  our  dead ; 
They  once  were  accounted  as  sages, 
And  were  sponsors  for  both  at  the  font. 
Come  and  kneel  at  the  shrine  of  our  fathers, 
At  the  shrine  of  their  Father,  their  God, 
And  beg  that  the  star  which  they  followed 
Be  the  Bethlehem  star  for  our  path." 

II.    CONSECRATION 

It  is  morning.     The  sun  has  arisen 
Through  the  mists  that  are  flooding  the  plain. 
So  Artemis  comes  from  the  ocean, 
Her  face  all  aglow  from  her  bath. 
Outside  of  the  chateau's  tall  portal, 
Its  mighty  portcullis  upraised, 
And  the  drawbridge  that  guards  it  uplifted, 
A  great  Spanish  war-horse  is  fretting 
And  prancing  and  pawing  the  ground 
And  champing  his  bit  in  his  fervor. 
He  is  scenting  some  battle  afar. 
See  his  corselet  of  steel  and  his  gorget, 
And  his  saddle-cloth  gleaming  with  gold, 
And  the  trappings  that  come  from  Cordova ! 
165 


PATRIOT   OR  TRAITOR 


See  his  coat  with  that  luster  of  silk ! 

Nobility  glows  in  his  action, 

It  glows  in  the  gleam  of  his  eye, 

In  the  breath  that  is  clouding  his  nostrils, 

In  the  curve  and  the  poise  of  his  neck.| 

If  to-day  there  were  only  some  tourney, 

Another  grand  pageant  of  gold  ! 

There 's  a  man  stands  at  arms  by  him,  waiting, 

In  his  helmet  and  haubert  of  mail, 

With  the  falchion  he  wore  at  Rochelle 

When  that  Huguenot  citadel  fell. 

Not  long.    Then  the  drawbridge  is  lowered, 
The  portcullis  raised,  and  the  Count 
Cometh  forth,  all  arrayed  for  his  journey. 
So  the  sun  cometh  forth  from  a  cloud. 
There  is  someone  beside  him,  —  his  mother. 
A  smile  and  a  word  of  good  cheer, 
And  she  gives  him  her  sweet  benediction  ; 
Like  incense  it  perfumes  the  air  ! 
Then  our  knight  rides  away  on  his  journey 
On  to  Paris,  the  King,  and  the  court, 
With  the  sunset  of  boyhood  behind  him 
And  the  sunrise  of  manhood  before. 

Descending  the  steep,  through  the  lime-trees, 
As  he  reaches  the  roadway  he  halts. 
One  moment !     A  bound  through  the  coppice  ! 
And  there  —  such  a  vision  in  white  !  — 

166 


PATRIOT  OR  TRAITOR 


Is  a  form  at  a  half-open  lattice. 

A  salute ;  aiid  he  turns  and  rides  back. 

His  way  lies  along  by  the  river, 
And  the  vineyards  that  line  its  broad  shores, 
By  the  tower  that  stands  in  its  elbow ; 
This  was  built  by  the  Romans  of  old 
In  the  days  when  the  sons  of  the  forest 
And  their  primitive  corselets  and  shields 
Vercingetorix  formed  for  a  buckler 
'Gainst  the  might  of  imperial  Rome ; 
When  the  merciless  legions  of  Csesar, 
The  centuries  surname  the  Great, 
Had  conquered  all  Gaul  to  the  channel ; 
And  the  world,  from  Atlantic  to  Ind, 
Bowed  its  head  to  this  King  of  the  forum. 

The  river  still  flows  as  of  yore, 

Still  sings  and  still  smiles  in  the  summer, 

Still  dances  and  laughs  on  its  way  ; 

And  in  winter,  when  snows  scorn  the  mountains, 

Still  thunders  its  way  to  the  sea. 

And  our  knight  and  his  squire  tread  its  windings, 

And  the  palfrey  jogs  after  the  steed 

As  a  poodle  will  follow  a  stag-hound ; 

Jogs  on  and  jogs  on  and  jogs  on. 

The  sunset  was  laying  its  fingers 
On  Orleans  as  they  entered  its  gate ; 
A  name  that  in  history's  twilight 
Still  glows  with  the  glory  of  day  ; 

167 


PATRIOT   OR  TRAITOR 


A  name  that  still  stirs  our  emotions 
Though  oblivion's  slumber  and  gloom 
Have  veiled  from  our  sight  many  others. 
It  was  here  that  the  Conquest  was  stayed ! 
It  was  here  that  a  nation,  awaking, 
As  a  giant  awakes  from  a  trance, 
Broke  the  teeth  of  the  lion  of  England, 
Long  buried  so  deep  in  her  throat ! 
It  was  here,  too,  a  maiden,  a  peasant, 
Divine  in  the  strength  of  her  faith, 
Revived  the  dead  words  of  the  Scripture : 
By  faith  have  great  mountains  been  moved. 

But  to-night  St.  Bartholomew's  fingers 

Are  printing  their  stains  on  her  robe ! 

To-night  in  the  coils  of  the  serpent 

Are  the  bodies  of  freedom's  elect ! 

The  market-place  surges  with  people. 

They  are  filling  the  streets  and  the  lanes, 

They  are  crowding  the  house-tops  and  windows ; 

Their  torches  are  standing  in  lines, 

In  rows  and  in  serpentine  alleys ; 

They  are  gleaming  and  glaring  with  fire, 

They  are  painting  with  passions  their  faces. 

These  burn  like  the  heat  of  a  forge. 

Here  is  hate.     Here  is  joy.     Here  is  horror. 

Here  is  hate  that  a  Huguenot  dares 

To  challenge  the  nod  of  the  Pontiff; 

Here  is  joy  that  a  Huguenot  suffers ; 

Here  's  horror  at  his  writhings  and  pangs. 

108 


PATRIOT   OR   TRAITOR 


lu  the  center  a  pile  of  dry  fagots. 
Among  them  there  towers  a  cross, 
A  man  to  this  cross  has  been  girded ; 
The  cross  is  surrounded  with  priests ; 
The  man  has  the  robe  of  his  office, 
A  teacher  and  shepherd  of  men. 
But  the  face  of  the  victim,  —  't  is  shining 
With  a  light  that  is  not  of  this  world. 
'T  is  the  light  that  illumined  the  Master's 
Upon  Calvary's  glorious  pyre  ! 

Now  a  priest  sets  his  torch  to  the  fagots, 

A  hush  as  of  death  thrills  the  throng. 

See  the  flames  !  Hear  them  hiss  !  Hear  them  crackle  ! 

See  them  shoot  out  their  villainous  tongues  ! 

See  the  people !  they  surge  with  strange  passions  ; 

Some  are  sad  ;  some  are  glad ;  some  are  mad ; 

Some  groan ;  and  some  sigh  ;  and  some,  tossing 

Their  torches,  set  bedlam  on  high. 

A  riot  of  beasts  !  E'en  the  children 

Hide  their  eyes  in  the  skirts  of  the  mothers. 

Some  gnash ;  some  send  up  loud  cheers 

And  show  their  wolf-teeth  ;  while  others 

Hiss  out  a  curse  on  the  priests ; 

Some  scream  with  a  demon's  delight 

At  his  pangs  as  the  sufferer  writhes. 

But  the  count !  Yes,  he  saw  this  base  murder 
As  he  stood  in  the  shade  of  the  church, 
And  his  heart  was  a  wellspring  of  pity. 

169 


PATRIOT   OR  TRAITOR 


'T  was  a  sight  generations  had  seen, 

When  one  or  another  fierce  faction, 

Those  that  loved  or  that  spat  on  the  Pope, 

Exchanged  the  red  sword  for  the  crozier 

And  slew  whom  they  could  not  convert ; 

Had  been  done  at  Amboise,  in  the  Terror, 

When  the  cowl  and  naught  else  made  the  saint, 

And  that  chateau  was  turned  to  a  shambles 

And  the  river  ran  red  with  the  blood 

Of  saints  who  were  slain  for  denying 

That  bread  was  the  body  of  Christ. 

'T  is  the  son  cuts  the  throat  of  his  mother, 

'T  is  the  mother  feeds  death  to  her  child  ; 

E'en  the  vail  of  the  holy  of  holies 

Is  rent  by  the  hands  it  has  blessed ! 

As  these  fagots  were  fading  to  embers 

He  thought  of  the  hecatombs  slain 

For  a  waif  of  scholastical  fiction, 

And  swore  by  the  blood  of  the  slain 

To  lay  siege  to  the  heart  of  his  sovereign 

For  a  charter  to  worship  his  God 

Or  die  like  a  lamb  in  the  struggle 

At  the  beck  of  the  cardinal's  nod. 

"  He  has  strewn  the  green  fields  with  his  victims 

May  they  rise  like  those  giants  of  old, 

When  the  teeth  of  the  dragon  were  scattered, 

And  their  blood  be  the  seed  of  the  free ! " 


170 


PATRIOT   OR   TRAITOR 


III.    FIDELITY 

The  Louvre  was  a  mere-stone  of  Paris 
When  the  seventeenth  century  dawned  ; 
Outside  of  its  plaisance  and  terrace 
There  were  forest  and  arable  field ; 
The  slopes  of  the  Seine  were  then  meadows 
Where  a  farm-house  was  here  and  there  seen 
In  some  bend  of  its  lazy  arm  nestling, 
And  cattle  and  sheep  on  the  wold. 

Where  the  rooks  had  made  nests  in  some  ruins 

That  robbers  had  turned  into  dens 

The  cardinal  built  a  huge  palace,  — 

We  call  it  the  Palais  Royal,  — 

And  its  courts  and  its  gardens  and  grandeur 

Eclipsed  many  royal  demesnes. 

The  Queen  was  a  daughter  of  Csesar ; 
But  the  heart  of  her  lord  never  held, 
Though  her  graces  of  mind  and  of  person 
Were  diamonds  fit  for  a  crown. 
The  queen-mother,  the  cardinal,  too, 
Had  poisoned  the  fountain  of  love, 
To  hold  in  the  leash  of  ambition 
The  lions  of  state  and  of  war. 
The  cardinal  wielded  the  scepter, 
Wore  the  skin  of  the  lion  or  fox 
As  suited  his  purpose  ;  but  always 
His  hand  was  of  iron  whatever  the  glove. 
171 


PATRIOT   OR  TRAITOR 


The  King  was  no  sou  of  his  father 
In  that  tiger-like  grip  of  the  will ; 
For  his  was  the  way  of  the  maiden 
To  be  led  by  the  hand  that  she  loves. 
Isolation,  the  curse  of  high  station, 
Is  the  handmaid  the  Fates  give  the  great. 
Mt.  Blanc  stands  alone  in  its  grandeur  ; 
'T  is  the  wonder  of  millions  of  eyes, 
With  no  friendship  except  with  the  eagle, 
No  fellowship  save  with  the  spheres  ! 
So  the  king  had  no  love  in  his  portion, 
No  love  to  give  life  to  his  toil, 
No  friendship  to  season  his  duties  ; 
If  he  scattered  the  seeds  of  affection 
They  were  nipped  by  some  famine  or  frost 
What  plant  ever  grows  without  nurture  ? 
Will  affection  not  die  if  't  is  starved  ? 

The  King  called  the  count  to  his  councils  ; 

For  he  knew  he  was  true  to  the  pole, 

And  prized  both  his  youth  and  his  purpose, 

His  heart  and  his  grace  and  his  face. 

His  the  age  when  quick  sympathies  kindle, 

No  icicles  form  round  the  heart, 

When  the  blood  runs  like  rills  down  the  mountains 

And  hope  is  the  sun  of  the  morning, 

The  sun  of  high-noon  and  all  day. 

The  King  loved  the  sybarite's  pleasures, 
And  often  the  Seine  saw  their  faces 
172 


As  they  tempted  the  trout  from  her  pools ; 
And  often  the  glades  heard  the  chorus 
Of  their  hounds  as  they  baited  the  boar ; 
And  the  forest  the  ring  of  their  laughter 
When  they  brought  some  big  stag  to  the  spit, 
And  a  bevy  of  merry  companions 
Pledged  the  health  of  the  arrow  had  slain. 
At  times  they  were  off  on  their  hunters 
To  Touraine,  the  true  home  of  the  chase, 
To  see  if  the  boar  bit  the  spear-head 
Or  their  falcons  would  strike  as  of  yore. 
'Tis  here  is  the  grave  of  Da  Vinci, 
That  star  in  eternity's  blue  ! 
And  always  their  hearts  welled  with  honor 
To  that  master  of  many  great  arts, 
And  always,  whenever  they  passed  it 
Their  souls  were  a  wellspring  of  love. 
'T  is  a  proof  that  the  soul  is  divine  ! 

Who  loves  not  Touraine  in  the  autumn  ? 
Then  its  floors  are  mosaics  of  leaves ; 
Then  argosies  people  its  rivers  ; 
Its  meadows  are  pillared  with  sheaves ; 
Its  chateaux  are  spangled  with  crimson  ; 
Then  ghosts  on  the  castle-tops  dance 
Of  this  garden,  this  Eden  of  France, 
This  land  of  sweet  song  and  romance. 

These  were  times  when  the  courts  of  the  palace 
Were  ablaze  with  the  daughters  of  France, 
173 


PATRIOT   OR   TRAITOR 


With  jewels  and  pearls  and  tiaras, 

And  with  beauty  eclipsing  their  beams, 

With  crowns  and  with  coronets  blazing 

As  blazes  a  gem  in  the  sun ; 

With  Knights  of  the  Fleece  and  St.  Michael 

And  heirs  of  the  great  Field  of  Gold, 

Montmorencies,  Coliguys,  Navarres, 

And  the  stars  on  the  breast  of  Conde* ; 

But  none  with  so  brilliant  a  luster 

As  shone  in  the  face  of  the  Queen, 

And  none  with  so  shining  a  presence 

As  the  grace  that  illumined  the  count. 

Nor  were  days  nothing  else  except  pageants  ; 

There  were  duties  that  burdened  them,  too. 

There  were  times  when  the  needs  of  the  nation 

Were  weighed  in  the  councils  of  state  : 

Should  the  falchion  be  drawn  with  the  Spaniard  ? 

The  Huguenots  hunted  like  sheep 

From  the  caves  they  had  crawled  to  for  shelter  ? 

Should  the  peasant  be  harrowed  with  tax  ? 

The  baron  be  brought  to  his  haunches 

That  the  fleur-de-lis  flourish  alone  ? 

It  was  then  that  the  count  watched  the  compass 
If  the  cardinal  stood  at  the  helm, 
His  eye  ever  fixed  on  the  pole-star, 
His  vow  and  God's  shepherdless  sheep. 

In  the  wake  of  his  fortunes  were  courtiers, 
For  butterflies  follow  the  sun, 
174 


PATRIOT   OR   TRAITOR 


And  courtiers  who  basked  in  his  glory 
And  held  out  their  caps  to  be  filled. 

But  death,  always  near  at  high-noon, 

Had  his  hand  at  the  cardinal's  throat, 

Nor  cared  it  how  fiercely  the  prelate 

Pursued  the  chimera  of  fame, 

Pursued  with  no  fear  and  no  pity, 

As  the  miser  will  hunt  after  gold. 

Bent  down  with  the  weight  of  his  burden 

His  step  had  the  pace  of  the  snail. 

No  sleep  !  Nor  no  rest !    And  that  fever 

Was  burning  the  soul  out  of  life, 

Leaving  naught  but  the  light  in  the  windows 

To  tell  us  the  spirit  still  burned. 

That  light!    It  was  genius!   'Twill  kindle 

A  blaze  that  shall  loom  throughout  France  ! 

One  night  —  't  was  the  end  of  the  summer  — 

The  Seine  was  a  city  of  boats, 

The  park  was  a  forest  of  lanterns, 

The  palace  a  maelstrom  of  lights, 

The  terrace  a  whirlpool  of  courtiers, 

The  air  was  a  chorus  of  joy, 

For  Paris  had  put  on  its  plumage, 

And  had  come  to  behold  the  Queen's  f6te ; 

And  the  scene  was  a  dream  of  rare  beauty 

And  the  plaisance  a  realm  of  delight. 

Since  the  King  had  conceived  of  this  pageant, 
Some  friends,  who  were  near  to  his  heart, 
175 


PATRIOT   OR  TRAITOR 


Had  been  spinning  the  threads  of  their  purpose 

And  weaving  these  threads  in  a  scheme 

To  snare  in  its  meshes  their  master 

And  trip  up  the  heels  of  his  lord. 

The  whole  court  of  the  prelate  were  weary, 

Not  only  these  friends  but  the  Queen, 

The  King  and  his  mother  and  brother. 

From  the  King  they  had  wrung  a  half-promise 

That  the  head  at  the  helm  should  be  changed. 

Some  hugged  to  their  bosoms  the  shadow 

That  some  heretic,  maddened  with  wrongs, 

Would  snatch  again  Ravaillac's  dagger 

And  do  to  the  Catholic  cause 

What  Ravaillac  did  to  Navarre. 

Some  waited  on  tip-toe  the  knell 

That  should  lock  the  old  fox  in  a  dungeon 

And  give  to  their  idol  the  key. 

At  last  the  great  tower  tolled  midnight. 

Three  figures  emerged  from  the  gate, 

And,  crossing  the  terrace,  all  entered 

The  door  of  that  famous  old  fane 

From  whose  throat  had  been  thundered  the  tocsin, 

On  that  bloody  Bartholomew's  day, 

That  opened  the  flood-gates  of  slaughter 

And  deluged  all  Paris  with  blood. 

One  light  at  the  altar  was  burning : 

A  symbol  the  soul  never  dies  I 

The  church  was  as  still  as  a  graveyard, 
For  silence  had  folded  her  wings. 
176 


PATRIOT   OR  TRAITOR 


Now  Gaston  tells  over  his  sorrows 

As  a  novice  his  rosary  tells  ; 

"  This  glutton  is  stuffed  with  his  plunder  ! 

He  reels  with  the  blood  he  has  drunk  : 

His  robes  !  they  are  crimson,  not  scarlet ! 

He  rivals  the  King  in  his  state, 

And  is  lord  of  as  large  a  domain ; 

His  palace  eclipses  Mahal, 

That  jewel  on  India's  bosom 

Whose  wonders  so  stagger  the  world." 

With  his  hand  on  his  heart  spake  the  other ; 

He  dwelt  on  the  woes  of  the  realm : 

"  The  peasant  is  staggered  with  burdens ; 

The  barons  are  down  on  their  knees ; 

The  Juggernaut  rolls  on  greased  axles 

And  grinds  alike  peasant  and  peer ; 

Our  temple  of  Janus  is  open ; 

Ever  war  or  the  hell-hounds  of  war  1 

Now  't  is  Spain ;  and  the  rag  of  rebellion 

Is  floating  from  dozens  of  towers ! 

The  Puritans  over  the  Channel 

Are  breaking  a  lance  with  King  Charles  ; 

And  these  men  have  the  neigh  of  the  war-horse 

Who  are  trying  so  fiercely  to  bray. 

In  that  Saracen  tale,  you  '11  remember, 

Whom  Allah  would  kill  he  struck  blind." 

Their  lips,  dry  as  dust,  wait  his  answer. 
So  the  traveler  waits  at  a  spring 

177 


PATRIOT   OR  TRAITOR 


And  pants  for  a  draught  of  fresh  water. 
This  draught  will  be  tinctured  with  gall, 
For  the  King  was  too  timid  to  govern, 
As  much  as  he  hated  the  hemlock 
Had  poisoned  his  cup  for  so  long. 
0  this  favor  of  Kings !   'T  is  as  fleeting 
As  the  breezes  that  belly  the  sail, 
Now  sending  the  ship  with  a  wrhirlwind, 
Now  letting  it  sleep  in  the  swell ! 

It  was  dawn  when  they  crossed  to  the  palace, 
All  its  splendors  had  faded.     The  stars 
Were  closing  their  eyes.     There  was  nothing, 
Save  a  man  in  a  cloak  and  a  cowl 
To  be  seen  near  the  shade  of  the  portal 
At  first.     Then  the  vision  had  fled. 

IV.  MARTYRDOM 

On  the  isle  in  that  portion  of  Paris 
Where  the  feet  of  the  Romans  are  seen ; 
Where  the  legions  of  Csesar  were  quartered, 
And  Charlemagne  once  had  his  camp  ; 
Near  those  passionless  buttresses  holding 
The  great  Notre  Dame  in  their  arms, 
Is  the  chapel  of  royal  St.  Louis, 
That  gem  of  all  fanes,  St.  Chapelle. 
In  its  bosom  are  garnered  the  relics 
Of  that  land  of  our  holiest  love 
And  that  grave  of  so  many  crusaders, 
That  shrine  of  the  sons  of  the  Cross. 
178 


PATRIOT   OR   TRAITOR 


Its  memories  !   Eloquence  !   Echoes  ! 
Its  heirlooms  !  Its  incense  !  Its  prayers  ! 
They  fire  our  souls  with  amazement ! 

It  was  clad  in  the  mantle  of  night. 
A  figure  —  the  face  was  well  hidden 
And  another  —  the  face  was  well  veiled  — 
Stepped  out  of  the  darkness  and  entered. 
And  here  by  that  lattice  where  kings 
Come  to  pray  in  their  sepulchered  eyre, 
That  troth  which  was  plighted  in  childhood 
Thought  to  reach  its  fruition  to-night. 

Let  us  leave  them  alone  at  the  altar, 
Let  us  cover  their  joy  with  a  veil, 
That  joy  so  long  smothered  by  silence, 
That  wave  of  suspense  and  delight 
That  swept  them  along  in  its  current! 
The  joys  and  the  woes  of  the  lover, 
They  are  only  for  angels  to  see. 

Time  flies  upon  ecstasy's  pinions ; 
Then  there  knocks  at  the  door  of  the  mind 
The  dread  that  some  sad  misadventure 
Has  kept  back  their  friend  from  the  shrine. 
A  chill  like  the  breath  of  the  Ice-king 
Froze  the  currents  of  blood  in  their  veins ; 
Then  they  turned  back  their  eyes  to  the  darkness, 
And  their  footsteps  returned  whence  they  came. 
179 


PATRIOT   OR  TRAITOR 


And  again  in  the  shade  of  a  portal 
Could  be  seen  a  long  cloak  and  a  cowl. 
In  a  moment  this  specter  has  vanished. 

That  moment  sat  Armand  des  Plessis 
In  the  cardinal's  palace  near  by, 
The  finger  of  death  on  his  forehead. 
But  the  light  in  the  windows  still  burned  ! 
His  genius  still  burned  for  the  empire, 
Still  clutched  at  the  skirts  of  fair  Fame, 
That  jade  that  has  jilted  so  many,  — 
But  she  loves  him  too  well  to  coquet. 

He  knew  as  none  else  the  king's  heart : 

Knew  each  stop  and  each  fret  of  the  organ, 

And  could  play  with  a  masterly  skill ; 

But  he  knew,  too,  the  quicksands  were  shifting 

He  had  trod  with  such  velvety  feet ; 

He  knew  that  his  sovereign  was  sighing 

For  the  gurgle  of  death  in  his  throat. 

"  Come  it  must.    But  I  still  hurl  the  lightning ! 
Shall  a  boy  snatch  this  bolt  from  my  hand  ? 
Shall  I  give  up  the  glories  of  power  ? 
My  palace  ?   My  plumage  ?   My  wealth  ? 
Shall  the  pinions  be  plucked  from  the  eagle  ? 
Shall  the  lion  be  caged  like  the  lamb  ? 
Shall  the  church  put  on  sackcloth  and  ashes  ? 
Shall  the  Huguenots  strut  across  France  ? 
There  is  still  one  last  shaft  in  my  quiver  ! 
180 


PATRIOT   OR  TRAITOR 


This  treaty  has  never  reached  Spain, 
And  my  messenger  yet  may  o'ertake  it 
And  smear  with  the  traitor's  last  blood ! 

"  What !  Shall  not  a  king  break  a  promise  ? 
Bah  !  Gaston  not  trick  his  best  friend  ? 
No  vassal  can  marry  a  princess 
Till  his  sovereign  shall  give  his  consent ! 
His  word  ?   It  was  breath  !  'T  is  as  fleeting 
As  the  whim  of  a  weather-cock  king ! 
Silly  boy  !     Your  sails  were  not  fashioned 
To  trip  to  these  treacherous  winds ; 
You  know  not  the  tricks  of  this  compass ; 
Your  madness  shall  cost  you  your  curls ! " 

Of  this  tissue  the  Cardinal's  musings, 

Till  a  knock  on  the  door  broke  the  thread, 

And  a  man,  with  a  vision  sardonic, 

In  a  cloak  with  the  cowl  falling  back, 

Entered  in,  a  great  difference  showing, 

And  their  heads  were  soon  boiling  with  schemes. 

Just  over  the  Seine  from  the  palace 
The  old  Conciergerie  stands. 
'T  is  a  prison.     How  closely  our  sorrows 
Oft  tread  on  the  heels  of  our  joys ! 
'T  is  a  palace  of  sighs !   Its  dungeons 
Cemented  with  tears  and  with  blood ! 
Thence  the  tumbrils  have  carted  the  children 
Of  France  till  their  axle-trees  groaned. 
Its  caverns  have  sobbed  with  the  anguish 
181 


PATRIOT   OR  TRAITOR 


Of  martyrs  whose  souls  were  like  snow, 

Have  moaned  with  their  sighs  and  their  heart-aches. 

Their  crimes  ?    That  their  blood-drops  were  blue ! 

Here  languished  that  Queen  at  whose  murder 

The  demons  in  Hell  must  have  wept. 

If  these  cells  had  had  tongues  even  Dante 

Would  turn  in  his  grave  could  he  hear. 

At  the  time  of  this  tale  this  old  prison 

Held  fast  in  its  clutches  two  friends. 

The  pleasures  of  youth  and  ambition, 

The  dream  of  that  glory  to  come, 

If  the  sun  of  fulfilment  had  risen 

And  the  hill-tops  had  glowed  with  its  light ; 

If  their  hopes  had  but  had  benedictions, 

And  that  chorus  of  grateful  acclaim 

Had  come  from  the  Huguenot  people,  — 

These,  these  were  the  dreams  had  been  theirs ! 

As  for  one  —  no  active  conspiring, 
But  honor  had  tethered  his  tongue 
When  a  word  would  have  loosened  his  shackles, 
But  have  been  a  sharp  sword  to  his  friend. 
It  was  love  that  had  made  him  a  victim  ! 
But  the  other  ?    In  the  rashness  of  youth 
And  his  hatred  of  wrong  and  injustice 
He  had  crossed  that  thin  line  that  divides 
The  men  who  have  founded  great  nations 
From  the  traitors  who  die  by  the  axe. 
But  this  no  one  knew  except  Gaston. 
Had  he  held  to  his  word  they  were  saved. 
182 


PATRIOT   OR   TRAITOR 


Dozens,  yes,  scores  were  outside 

Who  were  eager  their  rescue  to  try, 

And  had  fixed  on  the  simplest  of  signals,  — 

That  the  count  let  a  handkerchief  fall, 

As  he  stood  at  the  block  by  the  headsman ; 

They  would  rush  like  a  whirlwind  of  fire ; 

Their  falchions  would  leap  from  their  scabbards 

And  the  axe  would  be  robbed  of  its  prey. 

This  message  was  brought  by  the  warder. 
How  they  pondered  it  over  and  o'er  : 
They  were  young,  life  sweet,  oh,  so  precious, 
And  the  cause  that  they  loved  in  such  need. 
And  for  one  a  bright  vista  seemed  opening 
Could  he  only  again  see  his  king ; 
For  he  might  once  again  win  his  favor 
Once  again  turn  his  eyes  to  the  light ; 
He  had  hazarded  life  for  his  country, 
Life,  life  for  that  guerdon  of  love ! 

Yes,  and  Love  and  Ambition  were  pleading 
And  begging  another  last  chance. 
While  Prudence  and  Care  for  the  people 
And  Conscience  were  counseling  peace  :  — 
"  Should  we  fail,  then  the  block  were  for  hundreds, 
For  the  list  of  our  friends  will  be  known. 
St.  Bartholomew's  day  was  a  specter 
That  should  make  Revolution  turn  pale ; 
Another,  some  Moses  may  come 
And  lead  them  across  this  Dead  Sea  : 
183 


PATRIOT   OR   TRAITOR 


"  It  is  Christ  who  has  told  us,  our  Master, 
If  thine  enemy  smite  thee  forbear, 
If  he  smite  thee  on  one  cheek,  the  other." 
These  hopes  and  these  fears  and  these  reasons 
Were  wrestling  at  the  judgment's  dread  bar, 
And  he  weighed  them  each  one  in  the  balance 
And  counted  each  drachm  and  each  grain, 
And  then  he  returned  them  this  answer  : 
"  It  is  better  the  few  than  the  many ; 
The  chances  of  failure  are  great." 

Outside  of  the  gates  of  the  prison 

Two  figures  in  black  might  be  seen. 

They  had  begged,  begged  in  vain  for  one  favor, 

For  one  sad  little  word  of  farewell, 

One  clasp  of  the  hand,  or  one  pressure 

Of  heart  against  heart,  or  one  look. 

They  stood  in  the  glare  of  the  sunshine. 

They  have  stood  there  through  all  the  long  night 

"  Soon,  soon  the  great  clock  will  toll  twelve! 

Can  a  mother,  a  sweetheart  and  princess 

Not  gain  the  poor  boon  of  one  kiss  ?  " 

The  saddest  of  words  is  farewell, 
But  the  saddest  of  farewells  is  this, 
When  the  pitcher  is  brought  to  the  fountain 
To  be  filled  with  the  nectar  of  love 
But  is  struck  by  the  sword  of  the  angel 
And  is  broken  and  falls  to  the  ground. 
184 


PATRIOT   OR  TRAITOR 


The  rattle  of  drums  !   The  shuffle 

Of  feet !  The  word  of  command  ! 

That  was  all !     And  he  stood  on  the  scaffold. 

Many  hundreds  were  there.     It  was  noon. 

But  his  thoughts  were  not  there,  but  in  dreamland, 

In  that  land  where  the  valleys  are  voiceless 

And  the  mountains  no  echoes  return, 

Where  the  river  glides  on  with  no  ripples, 

The  ferryman  rows  without  noise, 

And  the  people  who  wait  at  the  ferry 

Are  silent  and  shadowless  forms. 

He  sees  the  dull  sheen  of  the  river, 

And  he  feels  its  cold  tears  on  his  cheek, 

And  he  sees  the  great  sea  that  it  enters, 

Eternity's  fathomless  sea. 

But  he  sees,  too,  the  spirits  of  martyrs, 
And  he  sees  the  bright  sheen  of  their  wings, 
And  he  feels  the  warm  clasp  of  their  greeting, 
And  the  print  of  their  kiss  on  his  brow, 
And  the  sweetest  and  kindest  of  welcomes 
To  the  fields  where  they  dwell,  in  Elysium. 

But  now  he  beholds  the  grim  headsman 
And  the  shuddering  gleam  of  his  axe ; 
Still  the  light  of  this  beautiful  vision 
And  its  glory  illumine  his  face  ! 

And  he  lays  down  his  head  on  the  altar. 
There  was  one  gleaming  flash  through  the  air. 
Some  say,  and  they  stood  by  the  scaffold, 

185 


There  was  something,  it  seemed  like  a  dove, 

That  arose  like  a  halo  of  glory 

And  floated  away  like  a  cloud. 

They  watched  it  soar  higher  and  higher 

Until  lost  in  the  azureless  sky. 

But  a  step,  then  our  journey  is  ended. 
For  the  cardinal's  spirit  takes  wing 
To  meet  at  the  throne  of  Jehovah 
The  award  for  those  honors  and  crimes. 
His  labors  are  over.     A  kingdom 
Now  stands  on  the  backs  he  has  bent. 
The  barons  are  humbled.    A  system, 
For  cycles  supreme,  gnaws  the  ground. 

That  specter  of  death  that  was  hounding 

His  footsteps  now  stares  in  his  face. 

A  litter  is  made.     He  is  carried 

On  the  shoulders  of  slaves  to  Orleans ; 

Thence  borne  on  the  breast  of  the  river 

To  that  chateau  he  changed  to  a  jail 

For  the  friend  of  his  youth,  the  queen-mother, 

As  a  payment  for  favors  received, 

When  Ambition  wished  props  for  its  ladder, 

And  longed  a  king's  castle  to  scale. 

Thence  't  is  borne  to  our  narrative's  birthplace  ; 
To  that  chateau  and  bridge  of  Amboise  ; 
And  those  great  gouts  of  blood  on  its  gateway 

No  river  can  ever  efface ; 
186 


PATRIOT   OR   TRAITOR 


Past  the  homes  of  a  score  of  old  barons 

And  their  scoffs  and  their  curses  and  jeers ; 

Past  the  caves  where  the  Huguenots  cowered ; 

And  on,  ever  on,  through  Touraine, 

That  land  of  a  myriad  exiles 

Who  have  found  a  new  home  o'er  the  sea ; 

Past  thousands  who  lined  the  long  river 

In  silence,  or  shouting  their  scorn  ; 

Past  the  wrecks  of  Cinq-Mars,  whose  retainers 

Rained  showers  of  jibes  on  the  barge; 

And  that  tomb  where  Plantagenet  slumbers ; 

And  that  shrine  to  the  maid  of  Orleans  ; 

And  again  on  the  backs  of  his  vassals 

To  his  home.     May  God  give  him  peace ! 

What  Roman  so  triumphed  before  ? 

Here,  here  shall  he  sleep  till  that  trumpet 
Shall  summon  the  dead  to  arise 
And  stand,  both  the  just  and  the  unjust, 
Before  the  Great  Throne  to  be  judged. 
Who  can  say,  on  that  awful,  dread  day 
When  our  deeds  are  all  sifted  and  weighed, 
Our  motives,  our  triumphs,  our  failures, 
And  those  acts  that  the  sun  never  saw, 
And  when  God,  the  All-Seeing,  shall  scan  them, 
And  Christ,  our  Redeemer,  shall  plead,  - 
Who  can  say,  but  some  soul  who  in  sorrow 
Struggled  on  through  the  darkness  and  storm, 
With  love  and  naught  else  for  his  lantern, 
Will  receive  with  the  first  the  great  crown  ? 
187 


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